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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


The  Book  of 
Modern  British  Verse 


The  Book  of 
Modern  British  Verse 

Edited. h  ,'^tJS^ 
WILLIAM    STANLEY    BRAITHWAITE 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  cf  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPVRTGHT,    1919 

by  small,  maynard  &  company 
(incorpokated) 


THE   UNIVERSITY    PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  H.  P.  S. 

THESE    SVDNEIAN   SHOWERS 
GOSSAMERY    APRIL  GOLDEN    OCTOBER 


^ 


^JJ 


FOREWORD 

This  little  collection  is  intended  to  present  to  Ameri- 
can readers  the  character  of  contemporary  British 
verse.  The  period  has  now  definitely  assumed  the 
name  of  "  Georgian."  It  began  with  John  Alaserteld 
and  has  grown  into  the  newer  blossoming  of  Seigfried 
Sassoon,  Robert  Graves,  and  Robert'  Nichols.  The 
late  petals  of  the  X'ictorian  flower  began  to  droop 
under  the  reign  of  Edward  VII.  They  dropped  to  the 
ground  at  the  first  touch  of  the  frosty  truth  in  the  sub- 
stance, and  the  converting  concreteness  in  the  expres- 
sion, of  "  The  Everlasting  Mercy  "  and  '"  The  Widow 
in  the  Bye  Street."  The  new  era  began  with  an  as- 
sault upon  reality  and  a  shock  of  symbols.  And  upon 
it  descended  the  conflagration  of  the  world.  The  sow- 
ing was  turned  to  the  surface  by  a  world  war.  The 
re-sowing  began  in  the  trenches:  the  first  fruits  of 
which  are  beautiful  to  the  eye  but  bitter  to  the  taste. 
What  the  full  harvest  will  be  no  one  can  say.  because 
the  present  bad  weather  of  social,  economic,  and  i)olit- 
ical  turmoil  is  raging  over  the  fields  of  dream. 

The  contempcjrary  poets  of  (jrcat  P>ritain  arc  much 
read  and  admired  in  -America,  a  compliment  not  paid 
by  Great  Britain  to  American  poets.  I  have  edited 
this  volume  as  a  companion  to  the  "  ( ioldcn  Treasury 
of    Magazine    Verse "    to    link    the    contemporaneous 


FOREWORD 

periods  of  British  and  YVmerican  poetry.  The  present 
volume  will  serve  to  indicate,  I  trust,  what  the  most 
recent  character  of  British  poetry  is  like.  Points  of 
difference  with  our  own  art,  and  they  are  fundamental 
in  mood,  may  be  studied.  The  instinct  at  present  in 
America  to  appreciate  good  poetry  from  whatever 
source,  will  not  permit  these  points  -of  national  and 
cultural  difference  to  dull  the  enjoyment  of  an  art 
whose  nature  we  had  begun  to  look  upon  as  a  little  in- 
adequate to  our  conception  and  understanding  of  life. 
Our  own  poetic  independence  has  brought  us  to  the 
point  when  we  can  enjoy  British  poetry  when  it  is  most 
British. 

W.  S.  B. 
Arlington  Heights, 
Massachusetts. 
October  2,  19 19. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For  selections  in  this  volume  thanks  are  due  to  the  fol- 
lowing publishers  for  permission  to  use  the  poems  by  the 
authors  mentioned  : 

The  Macmillan  Co.  for  poems  by  John  Masefield,  Wilfrid 
Wilson  Gibson,  Ralph  Hodgson,  James  Stephens,  and 
George  Rostrcvor. 

E.  P.  DuTTOx  AND  Co.,  for  poems  by  Winifred  M.  Letts, 
Siegfried  Sassoon,  Evelyn  Underbill  and  Herbert  Trench. 

Henkv  Holt  and  Co.,  for  poems  by  Walter  dc  la  Mare, 
Padraic  Colum  and  Edward  Thomas. 

George  H.  Doran  Co.,  poems  by  Cicely  Eo.x  Smith  and 
May  Doney. 

Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc.,  poems  by  Robert  Graves,  William 
H.  Davies,  Hester  Sainsbury,  and  J.  C.  Squire. 

Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.,  poems  by  Robert  Nichols,  Theo- 
dore Maynard  and  Thomas  MacDonagh. 

John  Lane  Co.,  poems  by  Lascellcs  Abercrombic,  Iris 
Tree  and  Rupert  Brooke. 

HoL'GHTON  Mifflin  Co.,  for  poems  by  John  Drinkwater 
and  F.  S.  Flint. 

Duffield  and  Co.,  for  poems  by  Francis  Ledwidgc. 

Longmans.  Green  and  Co.,  for  poems  by  Eva  Gore-Booth, 
Willoughby  Weaving  and  Bernard  Gilbert ;  and  as  the 
American  representatives  of  H.  H.  Bl.kckwell  of  Ox- 
ford, for  poems  by  Ivsbcrt  Sitwell,  Sacheverell  Sitwell, 
Edith  Sitwell,  Shcrard  Vines.  Aldous  Huxley,  T.  W. 
Earp,  Lucy  Hawkins,  Elizabeth  Rendall,  Dorothy  D. 
.Sayers,  Gwen  Upcott  and  Fredcgond  Shove. 

G.  P.  PiTNA.Ms'  Sons,  for  poems  by  John  McCrac.  Charles 
Hamilton  Sorlcy,  and  James  C.  Welsh. 


ACKXOWLl'LDGMENTS 

TnK    lM)rK    Skas    Co..    for    poems   by    Scosamh    MacGath- 
nihaoil   (Joseph  Campbell),  and  Richard  Aldington. 

Thomas  B.  Moshkr.  for  poems  by  Lucy  Lyttelton. 

U.  W.  Hi-EBSCH,  for  a  poem  by  Irene  Rutherford  McLcod. 

Small,   ^rAVNARi)  anp   Co.,   for   a   poem   by   Joseph   Mary 

Plunkett. 
Elkin  Mathews,  for  poems  by  Gordon  Bottomlcy. 
Burns  and  Gates,  for  a  poem  by  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton. 
Martin  Secker,  for  poems  liy  James  Elroy  Flecker. 
Selwyn  and  Blunt,  for  poems  by  John  Freeman. 
SiDOWiCK  AND  Jackson,  for  a  poem  l)y  W.  J.  Turner. 
Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  for  poems  by  Harold  Monro. 
The  Smart  Set  Magazine,  for  the  poem  by  Lord  Dunsany. 


CONTENTS 

1.  Time,  You  Old  Gii'sv  Man i 

Ralph  Hodgson 

2.  The   Star 2 

li'illoughby  Weaving 

3.  Discovery 3 

John  Freeman 

4.  Music  Comes 4 

John  Freeman 

5.  Clavichords     5 

Osbert  Silu'ell 

6.  Who  Buys  Land 7 

Seosamh  MacCathmhaoil 

7.  Symbols 8 

John  Drinkiivter 

8.  So  Much  is  Altered 8 

T.  IV.  Harp 

9.  Man       9 

William  11.  Davies 

10.  A  Man  Dreams  that  He  is  the  Creator  ....     10 

Fredcgond  Shove 

11.  Kvery  Thing     • 11 

Harold  Monro 

\2.  Children's  Song     M 

I-ord  Madox  llueffcr 

\},.  The  Carol  of  the  Poor  Children 15 

Richard  Middlelon 

14.  Wishes  for  My  Son '6 

Thomas  MacDonagh 

xi 


CONTENTS 

15.  The  Two  Children 18 

William  H.  Davies 

16.  Quod  Semper 18 

Lucy  Lyttclton 

17.  Catharine      20 

IVilliam  H.  Davies 

18.  Eager   Sprinc, 21 

Gordon  Bottouilcy 

19.  A  Song  of  Apkh 22 

Francis  Ledzi'idgc 

20.  Spring       23 

Hester  Sainsbtiry 

21.  Sunrise  on  Rydal  Water 26 

John  Drinkivatcr 

22.  The  Bird  at  Dawn 28 

Harold  Monro 

23.  The  Kingfisher 2Q 

IVilliam  H.  Davies 

24.  Netted   Strawberries 2g 

Gordon  Bottomley 

25.  The  Wind 31 

Elizabeth  Rendall 

26.  In  the  Country 32 

IVilliam  H.  Davies 

2y.  Behind  the  Closed  Eve 33 

Francis  Ledividge 

28.  Wanderlust       34 

Gerald  Gould 

29.  The  South  Country 35 

Hilaire  Belloc 

30.  I  am  the  Mountainy  Singer 27 

Scosamh  MacCathmhaoil 

31.  The  Ascetics 38 

George  Rostrevor 

xii 


CONTENTS 


32.  Reciprocity       3Q 

John  Driukzi-atcr 

33.  Magic        40 

//'.  J.  Turner 

34.  Stone  Tkees 42 

John  Freeman 

35.  If  I   Should  Ever  bv  Chance 43 

Edu'ard  Thomas 

36.  What  Shall  1  Give? 44 

Edward  Thomas 

37.  If  I  Were  to  Own 45 

Edward  Thomas 

38.  And  Yol',  Helen 46 

Edicard  Thomas 

39.  The  Fish 47 

Rupert  Brooke 

40.  Mole      49 

.■JIdous  Hu.vle\' 

41.  The  Bill 51 

Ralph  Hodffson 

42.  Bodily   Beauty      58 

Gcorcje  Rostrcvor 

43.  Any  Lover,  Any  Lass 59 

Richard  Middleton 

44.  "  Bid  Adieu  to  Girlish  Days  " 60 

James  Joyce 

45.  Love  Came  to  Us 61 

James  Joyce 

46.  After  Two  Years (n 

Richard  .Udinf/lon 

47.  A  SoN(;  OK  Woman's  Smiling 62 

May  Doney 

4K.  To   My    Wife (>4 

James  C.  Welsh 

xiii 


CONTENTS 


49.  C.  L.  M 65 

John  Mascftcld 

50.  The  Mandrake's  Horrid  Scream 66 

Bernard  Gilbert 

51.  An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads 69 

Padraic  Coluvi 

52.  Old  Woman  Forever  Sitting 70 

Iris  Tree 

53.  No  Wife     71 

Bernard  Gilbert 

54.  Marriage  Song     76 

Lascelles  Abercronibie 

55.  The  Affinity 82 

Anne  Wickhatn 

56.  The  Ballad  of  Camden  Town 83 

James  Elroy  Flecker 

57-  Eve 85 

Ralph  Hodgson 

58.  Balkis 87 

Lascelles  Abcrcrombic 

59.  Lancelot  and  Guinevere 89 

Gerald  Gould 

60.  A  Ballad  of  Doom 90 

Elisabeth  Kendall 

61.  Dust 93 

Rupert  Brooke 

62.  To  a  Greek  Marble 95 

Richard  Aldington 

63.  Epilogue 96 

Lascelles  Abercrombie 

64.  The  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand loi 

James  Elroy  Flecker 

65.  Arabia      104 

Walter  de  la  Mare 
xiv 


CONTENTS 

66.  Babylon       105 

Ralph  Hodysuii 

67.  Babylon       107 

Fiola  1  ay  lor 

68.  The  Bough  of  Nonsense 108 

Robert  Graves 

69.  A  Song  for  Grocers log 

Sherard  Vines 

70.  "  PSITTACHUS    EOIS    I.MITATRIX    ALES    AB   InDIS"     .     .Ill 

Sacheverell  Sitivell 

71.  Fables      112 

Sacheverell  Sitzvell 

72.  Check       113 

James  Stephens 

73.  Myself  ON  the  Merry-Go-Round 114 

Edith  Sitii'ell 

74.  Philosophy 116 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 

75.  Billy's  Yarn     118 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 

76.  "Ships  that  Pass" iio 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 

77.  "  Tn   Prize" 122 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 

78.  The  Little  Waves  of  Breffny 124 

Eva  Gore-Booth 

70.  Cargoes 125 

John  Mascficld 

80.  Deep  Water  Jack 125 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 

81.  UxBRioGE   Road      126 

F.velyn  Underhill 

82.  Sorley's  Weather 128 

Robert  Graves 

XV 


CONTENTS 

83.  A  Drover 129 

Padraic  Colum 

84.  Haymaking 131 

Edzvard  Thomas 

85.  There  are  Songs  Enough 132 

Iris  Tree 

86.  Happy  is  England  Now 134 

John  Freeman 

87.  August,   1914     : 13.S 

John  Masc field 

88.  1914      1.38 

Rupert  Brooke 

89.  The   Kiss 141 

Siegfried  S  ass  con 

90.  The  Spires  of  Oxford 142 

IVinifred  M.  Letts 

91.  Conscripts 14.3 

Siegfried  Sassoon 

92.  Youth  and  Age 144 

Oshert  Sitivcll 

93.  Before  Action 14.S 

Wilfrid  IVilson  Gibson 

94.  The  Iron  Music 146 

Ford  Madox  Hucffer 

95.  To  the  Poet  Before  Battle 147 

Ivor  Gurney 

96.  The  Fear I47 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

97.  The  Question 148 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

98.  In  the  Trenches 148 

Richard  Aldington 

99.  Dreamers 150 

Siegfried  Sassoon 
xvi 


CONTENTS 

100.  Dlsk     150 

F.  S.  flint 

lui.  The  Birds  Flit  Unafraid 153 

Herbert  Trench 

102.  A  Mystic  as  Soldier i53 

Siegfried  Sassuan 

103.  Terror I54 

Richard  Aldiiujton 

104.  Into  Battle 156 

Julian  Grenfcll 

105.  The  Assault  1Ii:k(;k-     I57 

Robert  Grai  cs 

106.  The  Assault I5Q 

Robert  Nichols 

107.  To  Any  Dead  Officer 16.3 

Siegfried  Sassoon 

108.  By  the  Wood 165 

Robert  Nichols 

109.  Songs  from  the  Evil  Wood 166 

Lord  Dunsany 

1 10.  It's  a  Queer  Time 170 

Robert  Grazes 

x\i.  Back      171 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

112.  The  Return 17-2 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

11,3.  To  AN  Officer  IN  Regent  Street 172 

Lucy  HazvLins 

114.  To  Germany I73 

Charles  Hamilton  Sorley 

115.  The  Rainbow i73 

Leslie  Coulsun 

116.  Discharged  —  Totally   Disauled i75 

Jrenc  Rutherford  McLcod 

xvii 


CONTENTS 


117.  To  A  Bull-Dog 177 

J .  C.  Sqmre 

118.  When  It's  Over 180 

Max  I'lozi'inaii 

119.  In  Flanders  Fields 182 

John  McCrac 

120.  The  Old  Houses  of  Flanders 182 

Ford  Madox  Hucffcr 

121.  Pic-Nic 183 

/v<;^-t'  Macaitlay 

122.  The  Dying   Patriot 185 

James  lllroy  Flecker 

123.  Lepanto 187 

(/'.  K.  Chesterton 

124.  I  AM  the  Gilly  of  Christ 194 

Seosamh  MacCathnihaoil 

125.  Regnum  Caelorum  Vim  Patituk 195 

Evelyn  Under liill 

126.  Brother  Fidelis 107 

Gwen  Upeoft 

127.  Two  Carols 199 

Evelyn  Underhill 

128.  Triptych      200 

Robert  Nichols 

129.  Simon  the  Cyrenean 209 

Lucy  Lyttelton 

130.  Birthright 211 

John  Driiikivater 

131.  Harvest 211 

Eva  Gore-Booth 

132.  The  Dark  Way 212 

Joseph  Mary  Plunkett 

133.  The  Backward  Glance     .    . 214 

Evelyn  Underhill 
xviii 


CONTENTS 

134.  Gallows 215 

Edward  Thomas 

135.  Plaint  of  Friendship  by  Death  Broken  ....  217 

Robert  A'ichols 

136.  An  Epitaph 220 

Walter  de  la  Marc 

137.  The  Listeners 220 

Walter  de  la  Mare 

138.  The  Whisperers 221 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

139.  The  House  of  the  Soul:  Lay 222 

Dorothy  L.  Sayers 

140.  Divina  Com  media 232 

Eva  Gore-Booth 

141.  NiccoLO  Machiavelli  238 

Bernard  Gilbert 

142.  Biography 239 

John  Masefield 

143.  XoD 248 

ll'alter  de  la  Mare 

144.  Sonnet     249 

Fredcjiond  Shove 

145.  Kisses  in  the  Rain 249 

D.  H.  Lawrence 

146.  We  Would  See  Love 251 

Charles  Williams 

147.  Amourette      252 

Anna  Wickham 

148.  The  Faithful  Amorist 253 

Anna  Wickham 

149.  The  Mum.mek 254 

Anna  Wickham 

150.  The  World's  Miser 255 

Theodore  Maynard 

\-.\.  Apocalypse     256 

Theodore  Maynard 

xix 


The  Book  of 
Modern  British  Verse 


Time,  You  Old  Gi/^sy  Man 

TIME,  you  old  gipsy  man, 
Will  you  not  stay, 
Put  up  your  caravan 
Just  for  one  day? 

All  thinj^s  I'll  give  you 
Will  you  be  my  guest, 
Bells  for  your  jennet 
Of  silver  the  best. 
Goldsmiths  shall  beat  you 
A  great  golden  ring. 
Peacocks  shall  bow  to  you, 
Little  boys  sing. 
Oh,  and  sweet  girls  will 
Festoon  you  with  may. 
Time,  you  old  gipsy. 
Why  hasten  away? 
Last   week   in    Babylon, 
Last  night  in  Rome, 
Morning,    and    in    the    crush 
Under  T'aul's  flome ; 
Under    I'aul's   dial 
^'ou  tighten  yotu"  rein  — 
Only  a  moment. 
And  off  once  again  ; 
Off  to  some  citv 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Now  blind  in  the  womb, 

Off  to  another 

Ere  that's  in  the  tomb. 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man, 
Will  you  not  stay. 

Put    up   your   caravan  . 
Just  for  one  day  ? 


Ralph  Hodgson 


The  Star 

BEAUTY  had  first  my  pride; 
But  now  my  heart  she  hath. 
And   all   the    whole    world    wide 

Is   Beauty's   path ! 
By  mountain,  field  and  flood 
I  walked  in  hardihood ; 
But  now  with  delicate  pace 
Her  steps   I   trace. 


Once  did  my  spirit  dare 

In  fond  presumptuous  dream 

To  make  her  ways  more  fair 

That  fair  did  seem. 
But   all   the   world   became 
Her  ways  elect,  to  shame 
With  their  least  lovely  lot 

My  loftiest  thought. 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Her  worshipful  bright  fire ! 
Ah  !     Wliither  will  it  lead 
My  burning  faint  desire 

And  feet  that  bleed? 
Far  in  my   failing  view, 
A  pure  and  blazing  gem, 
She  lights  on  earth  the   New 

Jerusalem ! 

VVilloughby   Weaving 


J  Discovery 

BEAUTY    walked    over    the    hills    and   made    them 
bright. 
She  in  the  long  fresh  grass  scattered  her   rains 
Sparkling  and  glittering  like  a  host  of  stars, 
But  not  like  stars  cold,  severe,  terrible. 
Hers  was  the  laughter  of  the  wind  that  leaped. 
Arm-full   of   shadows,   flinging   them    far   and   wide. 
Hers  the  bright  light  within  the  quick  green 
Of  every  new  leaf  on  the  oldest  tree. 
It  was  her  swimming  made  the   river   run 
.Shining  as  the  sun  ; 

Her  voice,  escaped  from  winter's  chill  and  tlark, 
Singing  in  the  incessant  lark  .  .  . 
All  this  was  hers  —  yet  all  this  had  not  been 
Except   'twas  seen. 

It  was  my  eyes.  Beauty,  that   made  thee  bright ; 
My  ears  that  heard,  the  blood  leaping  in  my  veins, 
The  vehemence  of  transfiguring  thought  — 

3 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Not  lights  and  shadows,  birds,  grasses  and  rains  — 

That  made  thy  wonders  wonderful. 

For  it  has  been,  Beauty,  that  I  have  seen  thee. 

Tedious  as  a  painted  cloth  at  a  bad  play, 

Empty  of  meaning  and  so  of  all  delight. 

Now  thou  hast  blessed  nic  with  a  great  pure  bliss, 

Shaking  thy  rainy  light  all  over  the  earth. 

And  I  have  paid  thee  with  my  thankfulness. 

John  Freeman 


Music  Comes 

MUSIC  comes 
Sweetly  from  the  trembling  string 
When   wizard   fingers    sweej) 
Dreamily,  half  asleep; 
When  through  remembering  reeds 
Ancient   airs   and   murmurs   creep, 
Oboe  oboe  following. 
Flute  answering  clear  high   Hute, 
Voices,    voices  —  falling   mute, 
And  the  jarring  drums. 

At  night  I  heard 

First  a  waking  bird 

Out  of  the  quiet  darkness   sing  .  .  . 

Music  comes 

Strangely  to  the  brain  asleep ! 

And  I   heard 

Soft,  wizard  fingers  sweep 

Music  from  the  trembling  string. 


4 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

And  through  remembering  reeds 

Ancient  airs  and  murmurs  creep; 

Oboe  oboe  following, 

Flute  calling  clear  high  flute, 

\'oices   faint,    falling   mute, 

And  low  jarring  drums; 

Then  all  those  airs 

Sweetly   jangled  —  newly    strange, 

Rich   with  change  .  .  . 

Was  it  the  wind  in  the  reeds? 

Did  the  wind  range 

Over   the    trembling   string; 

Into  flute  and  oboe  ])ouring 

Solemn  music;   sinking,  soaring 

Low  to  high. 

Up  and  down  the  sky? 

Was  it  the  wind  jarring 

Drowsy  far-off  drums? 

Strangely  to  the  brain  aslee]) 
Music  comes. 

John  FrcciiKiii 


T  Clavichords 

fTo   Mrs.   Gordon    Woodhouse  | 

ITS  pure  and  dulcet  tone 
So  clear  anrl  cool 
Rings   out  —  tho'    mufllcd    by    the   centuries 
Passed    by; 
Each   nr»tc 


THE  BOOK  OF 

A  distant  sigh 

From  some  dead  lovely  throat. 

A  sad  cascade  of  sound 

Floods  the  dim  room  with  faded  memories 

Of    beauty   that    has   gone. 

Like  the  reflected  rhythm  in  some  dusk  blue  pool, 

Of  dancing  figures  (long  laid  in  the  ground)  ;  — 

Like  moonlit  skies 

Or  some   far  song  harmonious  and  sublime  — 

Breaking  the  leaden   slumber  of  the  night. 

A  perfume,   faint   yet   fair 

As  of  an  old  press'd  blossom  that's  reborn 

Seeming  to  flower  alone 

Within  the  arid  wilderness  of  Time 

The  music  fills  the  air 

Soft  as  the  outspread  fluttering  wings 

Of  flower-bright  butterflies 

That  dive  and  float 

Through  the  sweet  rose-flushed  hours  of  summer  dawn. 

The  rippling  sound  of  silver  strings 

Break  o'er  our  senses  as  small  foaming  waves 

Break  over  rocks. 

And   into  hidden   caves 

Of  silent  waters  —  never  to  be   found  — 

Waters  as  clear  and  glistening  as  gems. 

And  in  this   ancient   pool  of  melodies, 
So  soothing,   deep. 

We  search  for  strange  lost  images  and  diadems 
And  old  drowned  pleasures, 
—  Each  one  shining  bright 
6 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 
And  rescued  from  the  crystal  deptlis  of  sleep. 

As  the  far  sun-kissed  sails  of  some  full-rigged  boat 

Blown  by  a  salt  cool  breeze 

—  Laden  with  age-old  treasures 

And  rich  merchandise, 

Fade  into  evening  on  the   foam-flecked  seas. — 

So    this   last    glowing   note 

Hovers  a  while, —  then  dies. 

Osbcrt    Sitwcll 


JJlw  Buys  Laud 

WHO    buys    land   l)uys    many    stones. 
Who  buys  flesh  buys  many  bones ; 
Who  buys  eggs  buys  many  shells. 
Who  buys  love  buys  nothing  else. 

Love  is  a  burr  upon  the  floor. 
Love  is  a  thief  behind  the  door; 
Who  loves  leman  for  her  breath 
May  quench  his  fire  and  cry  for  death! 

Love  is  a  Ijridlc,  love  is  a  load, 
Love  is  a  thorn  upon  the  road ; 
Love  is  the  fly  that  flits  its  hour, 
Love  is  the  shining   venom-flower. 

Love  is  a  net,  love  is  a  snare. 
Love  is  a  bubble  blown  with  air; 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Love  starts  hot,  and  waning  cold. 
Is  withered  in  the  grave's  mould  ! 
Seosa})ih  MocCathinhaoil  {Joseph  Campbell) 


Symbols 

I   SAW    history   in   a   poet's   song. 
In  a  river  reach  and  a  gallows-hill, 
In  a  bridal  bed,  and  a  secret  wrong, 
In  a  crown  of  thorns:  in  a  daffodil. 

I  imagined  measureless  time  in  a  day, 
And  starry  space  in  a  wagon-road, 
And  the  treasure  of  all  good  harvests  lay 
In  a  single  seed  that  the  sower  sowed. 

My   garden-wind   had   driven   and   havened    again 

All  ships  that  ever  had  gone  to  sea. 

And  I   saw  the  glory  of  all  dead  men 

In  the  shadow  that  went  by  the  side  of  me. 

John  Drinkwater 


8  So  Much  is  Altered 

SO   much  is  altered ;   we  no  longer  write 
As  those  poets  did,  who,  in  their  pride  and  might, 
AV^ent  from  their  fellows  and  made  a  lonely  song 
()f  their  own  victory  or  defeat  and  wrong, 
Hewed  out  a  great  battle  with  the  world. 
For  they  were  titans;  passion  on  passion  hurled, 
8 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Raised  them  to  God.     Men  saw  them,  as  from  far 
Eve-weary   shepherds   watch   a   distant   star. 
But  now  we  go  to  cities,  feel  the  need 
To  he  near  each  other,  to  flow  in  crowds,  to  feed 
On  their  rich  htmian  presences.     We  have  said 
That  the  ancient   terror,   loneliness,  is  dead. 
Soul  is  like  soul :  the  old  enmity  is  past. 
The  war  of  self  and  self.     And  now  at  last 
'I'he  poet  has  learned  to  serve;  with  the  rest  he  weaves 
The  one  fair  pattern,  and  with  them  believes 
That  life  is  a  green  tree  with  many  whispering  leaves. 

T.  JV.  Earp 


Man 

1SAW  Time  running  by  — 
Stop,  Thief,  was  all  the  cry. 
I  heard  a  voice  say,  Peace  ! 
Let  this  vain  clamour  cease. 
Can  ye  bring  lightning  back 
That  leaves  upon  its  track 
Men,  horses,  oak  Prees  dead  ? 
Canst  bring  back  Time?  it   said. 
There's  nothing  in  Man's  mind 
Can   catch   Time  up  behind; 
In  front  of  that  fast  Thief 
There's  no  one  —  end  this  grief. 
Tut,  what  is  Man?     How  frail! 
A  grain,  a  little  nail, 
The  wind,  a  change  of  clf)th  — 
A   fly  can  give  him  death. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Some  fishes  in  the  sea 
Are  born  to  outlive  thee, 
And  owls,  and  toads,  and  trees  — 
And  is  Man  more  than  these? 
I  see  Man's  face  in  all 
Things,  be  they  great  or  small ; 
I  see  the  face  of  him 
In  things  that  fly  or  swim; 
One  fate  for  all,  I  see  — 
Whatever   that   may   be. 
Imagination  fits 
Life  to  a  day;  though  its 
Length  were  a  thousand  years, 
'Twould  not  decrease  our  fears ; 
What  strikes  men  cold  and  dumb 
Is  that  Death's  time  must  come. 

William  H.  Davies 


10        A  Man  Dreams  That  He  is  the 
Creator 

I  SAT  in  heaven   like  the  sun 
Above   a    storm   when    winter   was: 
I  took  the  snowflakes  one  by  one 

And  turned  their  fragile  shapes  to  glass: 
I  washed  the  rivers  blue  with  rain 
And  made  the  meadows  green  again. 

I   took   the   birds    and    touched   their   springs, 
Until  they  sang  unearthly  joys: 


MODERN  BRITISH  \ERSE 

Ihey  tlfw  about  on  golden  wings 

And  glittered  like  an  angel's  toys : 
1   filled  the  fields   with   flowers'   eyes, 
As  white  as  stars  in  Paradise. 

And  then   I   looked  on  man  and  knew 
Him   still    intent   on   death  —  still   proud; 

Whereat  into  a  rage  I  flew 

And  turned  my  body  to  a  cloud : 

In  the  dark  shower  of  my  soul 

The   star  of  earth    was   swallowed   whole. 

Frcdegond  Shove 


IT  Every  Thing 

SI.XCE   man   has   been   articulate, 
Mechanical,  improvidently  wise, 
(Servant  of   I'ate), 
He  has  not  understood  the  little  cries 
And   foreign   conversations   of   the   small 
Delightful  creatures  that  have  followed  him 
.\ot    far   behind; 

Has   failed  to  hear  the  sympathetic  call 
Of  Crockery  and  Cutlery,  those  kind 
Reposeful  Teraphim 
Of  his  domestic  happiness;  the  Stool 
He  sat  on,  or  the  Door  he  entered  through 
He  has  not  thanked  them,  overbearing  fool! 
What  is  he  coming  to? 


II 


THE  BOOK  OF 

But   you  should   listen  to   the  talk   of  these. 

Honest  they  are,  and  patient  they  have  kept, 

Served  him  without  his  Thank  you  or  his  Please 

I  often  heard 

The  gentle  Bed,  a  sigh  between  each  word, 

Murmuring,  before  I  slept. 

The  Candle   as  J  blew  it,  cried  aloud, 

Then  bowed. 

And   in   a   smoky  argument 

Into  the  darkness  went. 

The  Kettle  puffed  a  tentacle  of  breath  :  — 

'  Pooh  !  I  have  boiled  his  water,  I  don't  know 

Why ;  and  he  always  says  I  boil  too  slow. 

He   never   calls   me   "  Sukie,   dear,''   and   oh, 

I  wonder  why  I   squander  my  desire 

Sitting  suljmissive  on  his  kitchen  fire.' 

Now  the  old  Copper  Basin  suddenly 

Rattled  and  tumbled  from  the  shelf. 

Bumping  and  crying:     'I  can   fall  by  myself; 

Without  a  woman's  hand 

To  patronize  and  coax  and  flatter  me. 

I  understand 

The   lean   and   poise   of   gravitable  land.' 

It  gave  a  raucous  and  tumultuous  shout, 

Twisted  itself  convulsively  about, 

Rested  upon  the  floor,  and,  while  I  stare, 

It   stares  and  grins  at  me. 

The  old  impetuous  Gas  above  my  head 
Begins   irascibly   to   flare   and   fret, 

12 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Wheezing  into  its  epileptic  jet, 
Reminding  me  I  ought  to  go  to  bed. 

The  Rafters  creak;  an  Empty-Cupboard  door 
Swings  open;  now  a  wild  Plank  of  the  floor 
Breaks  from  its  joist,  and  leaps  behind  my  foot. 
Down  from  the  chimney  half  a  pound  of  Soot 
Tumbles,  and  lies,  and  shakes  itself  again. 
The  Putty  cracks  against  the  window-pane. 
A  piece  of  Paper  in  the  basket  shoves 
Another  piece,  and  toward  the  bottom  moves. 
My  independent  Pencil,  while  I  write. 
Breaks  at  the  point:  the  ruminating  Clock 
Stirs  all  its  body  and  begins  to  rock. 
Warning  the   waiting  presence  of  the   Night. 
-Strikes  the  dead  hour,  and  tumbles  to  the  plain 
Ticking  of  ordinary  work  again. 

^'ou  do  well  to  remind  mc.  and  I  ])raise 
Your   strangely   individual    foreign   ways. 
^'ou  call  me  from  myself  to  recognize 
(  ompanionship  in  your  unselfish  eyes. 
I  want  your  dear  acquaintances,  although 
I    pass  you   arrogantly   over,   throw 
^'ou^  lovely  sounds,  and  squander  them  along 
My  busy  days.     I'll  do  you  no  more  wrong. 

Purr  for  me.  Sukic,  like  a  faithful  cat. 
You,  my  well  trampled   Boots,  and  you.  my   ilat. 
Remain  my  friends;  I   feci,  though  I  flon't  s[)eak. 
VoviT  touch  grow  kindlier  from  week  to  week. 
It  well  becomes  our  mutual  happiness 

13 


THE  BOOK  OF 

To  go  toward  the  same  end  more  or  less. 

There   is   not   mnch   dissimilarity. 

Not  much  to  choose,  I  know  it  well,  in  fine, 

Between  the  purposes  of  you  and  me. 

And  your   eventual   Rubbish    Heap,   and   mine. 

Harold  Monro 


12  Children's  Song 

SOMETIMES  wind  and  sometimes  rain, 
Then  the  sun  comes  back  again ; 
Sometimes  rain  and  sometimes  snow, 
Goodness,  how  we'd  like  to  know 
Why  the  weather  alters  so. 

When  the  weather's  reall}  good 
We  go  nutting  in  the  wood; 
When  it  rains  we  stay  at  home, 
And  then   sometimes  other  some 
Of   the   neighbors'   children    come. 

Sometimes  we  have  jam  and  meat, 
All  the  things  we  like  to  cat : 
Sometimes   we   make   do   with    bread 
And   potatoes  boiled   instead. 
Once  whe.i  we  were  put  to  bed 
We  had  nowt  and  mother  cried, 
But  that  was  after  father  died. 

So,  sometimes  wind  and  sometimes  rain, 
Then  the  sun  comes  back  again; 
14 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Sometimes  rain  and  sometimes  snow, 
Goodness,  how  we'd  like  to  know 
If  things  will  ahs.'ays  alter  so. 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer 


/  ?       The  Carol  of  the  Poor  Children 

WE   are   the   poor   children,   come   out   to   see   the 
sights 
On  this  day  of  all  days,  on  this  night  of  nights; 
The  stars  in  merry  parties  are  dancing  in  the  sky, 
A  fine  star,  a  new  star,  is  shining  on  high  ! 

We  are  the  poor  children,  our  lips  are   frosty  blue. 
We  cannot  sing  our  carol  as  well  as  rich  folk  do; 
( )ur  bellies  are  so  empty  we  have  no  singing  voice, 
I'.ut  this  night  of  all  nights  good  children  must  rejoice. 

We  do  rejoice,  we  do  rejoice,  as  hard  as  we  can  try, 
A  fine  star,  a  new  star,  is  shining  in  the  sky ! 
And  while  we  sing  our  carol,  we  think  of  the  delight 
The   happy   kings   and   shepherds   make   in    Bethlehem 
to-night. 

Arc  we  naked,  motlur,  and  arc  we  starving-poor  — 
'  )h,  see  what  gifts  the  kings  have  brought  outside  the 

stable  door; 
.Arc  we  cold,   mother,  the  .'iss  will  give  his  bay 
To  make  the  manger  w.irm  and  keej)  the  cruel   winds 

away. 

»5 


THE  BOOK  OF 

We  are  the  poor  children,  but  not  so  poor  who  sing 
Our  carol  with  our  voiceless  hearts  to  greet  the  new- 
born king, 
On  this  night  of  all  nights,  when  in  the  frosty  sky 
A  new  star,  a  kind  star,  is  shining  on  high  ! 

Richard  Middleton 

14  Wishes  for  My  Son 

Born  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  igi2 

NOW,  my  son,  is  life  for  you. 
And  I  w-ish  you  joy  of  it, — 
Joy  of  power  in  all  you  do. 
Deeper  passion,  better  wit 
Than   I   had   who   had   enough, 
Quicker  life  and  length  thereof, 
More  of  every  gift  but  love. 

Love  I  have  beyond  all  men, 
Love  that  now  you  share  with  me  — 
What  have  I  to  wish  you  then 
But  that  you  be  good  and- free. 
And  that  God  to  you  may  give 
Grace  in  stronger  days  to  live? 

For   I   wish  you   more   than   I 
Ever  knew  of  glorious  deed. 
Though  no  rapture  passed  me  by 
That  an  eager  heart  could  heed, 
Though  I  followed  heights  and  sought 
Things  the  sequel  never  brought: 
t6 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Wild  and  perilous  holy  things 
Flaming  with  a  martyr's  blood. 
And  the  joy  that  laughs  and  sings 
Where  a  foe  must  be  withstood, 
Joy  of  headlong  happy  chance 
Leading  on  the  battle  dance. 

But  I  found  no  enemy, 

No  man  in  a  world  of  wrong, 

That  Christ's  word  of  Charity 

Did  not  render  clean  and  strong  — 

Who  was  I  to  judge  my  kind, 

Blindest  groper  of  the  blind? 

God  to  you  may  give  the  sight 

And  the  clear  undoubting  strength 

Wars  to  knit  for  single  right, 

Freedom's  war  to  knit  at  length, 

And   to    win,   through   wrath    and    strife, 

To  the  sequel   of  my  life, 

But  for  you,  so  small  and  young, 

Born  on   Saint  Cecilia's  Day, 

I  in  more  harmonious  song 

Now  for  nearer  joys  should  pray  — 

Simple  joys :  the  natural  growth 

Of  your  childhood  and  your  youth, 

Courage,  innocence,  and  truth  : 

These    for  you.    so   small    ami    young. 
In   your   hand    and    heart    and   tongue. 

Thomas  MacDoiuif^li 
17 


THE  BOOK  OF 


13  The  Two  Children 

"A  ^^'  ^'^^'^  '^°y '  ^  ^^^ 

-^^k.       You  have  a  wooden  spade. 
Into  this  sand  you  dig 

So  deep — for  what?"  I   said. 
"  There's  more  rich  gold,"  said  he, 

"  Down  under  where  I  stand. 
Than   twenty   elephants 

Could  move   across  the   land." 

"  Ah,  little  girl  with  wool !  — 

What  are  you  making  now?  " 
"  Some  stockings   for  a  bird, 

To  keep  his  legs  from  snow." 
And  there  those  children  are. 

So   happy,    small,    and   proud : 
The  boy  that  digs  his  grave, 

The  girl  that  knits  her  shroud. 

IVilliam  H.  Davies 


16  Quod  Semper 

CHILD 

WHAT   wind   is   this   across   the   roofs   so   softly 
makes  his  way, 
That  hardly  makes  the  wires  to  sing,  or  soaring  smokes 
to  sway? 
18 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

WIND 

I  am  a  weary   southern   wind  that  blows  the  livelong 
day 
Over  the  stones  of  Babylon, 
Babylon,  Babylon, 
The  ruined  walls  of  Babylon,  all   fallen  in  decay. 

Oh,   I   have  blown  o'er   Babylon   when   royal  was  her 

state. 
When  fifty  men  in  gold  and  steel  kept  watch  at  every 

gate. 
When    mcrchant-mcn    and    boys    and    maids    thronged 
early  by  and  late 
Under  the  gates  of   Babylon. 
Babylon,  Babylon. 
The  marble  gates  of  Babylon,  when  Babylon  was  great. 

CHILD 

Good  weary  wind,  a  little  while  pray  let  your  course 

be  stayed. 
And  tell  me  of  the  talk  they  held  and  what  the  peoi)le 

said. 
The  funny  folk  of  Babylon  before  tliat  they  were  dead. 
That  walked  abroad  in  I')abyl()n. 
Babylon,  Babylon. 
I'.eforc  the  towers  of   I'abylon  along  the  ground  were 
laid. 

WIND 

The  folk  that  walked  in  Babylon,  they  talked  of  wind 
and   rain, 

»9 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Of  ladies'  looks,  of  learned  books,  of  merchants'  loss 

and  gain. 
How    such-an-one    loved    such-a-maid    that    loved    him 
not  again 
(For  maids  were  fair  in  Babylon), 
Babylon,  Babylon, 
Also  the   poor  in   Babylon   of  hunger  did   complain. 

CHILD 

But  this  is  what  the  people  say  as  on  their  way  they 

go, 
Under  my  window  in  the  street,   I   heard  them  down 

below. 

WIND 

What  other  should  men  talk  about  five  thousand  years 
ago? 
For  men  they  were  in  Babylon. 
Babylon,  Babylon, 
That   now   are   dust   in    Babylon    I    scatter   to-and-fro. 

Lucy  Lyttclton 


ly  Catharine 

WF  children  every  morn  would  wait 
For  Catharine,  at  the  garden  gate; 
Behind  school-time,  her  sunny  hair 
\\'ould  melt  the  master's  frown  of  care. 
What  time  his  hand  but  threatened  pain. 
Shaking  aloft  his  awful  cane: 

20 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

So  here  one  summer's  morn  we  wait 

For    Catharine    at    the   garden    gate. 

To  Dave  I  say  — "  There's  sure  to  be 

Some  coral  isle  unknown  at  sea, 

And  —  if   I    see   it   first — 'tis   mine! 

But   I'll  give  it  to  Catharine." 

"  When  she  grows  up,"  says  Dave  to  me, 

■'  Some  ruler  in  a  far  countree, 

Where  every  voice  but  his  is  dumb. 

Owner  of  pearls,  and  gold,  and  gun, 

Will    build    for   her   a    shining   throne, 

Higher  than  his,  and  near  his  own; 

And  he,  who  would  not  list  before. 

Will   listen   to   Catharine,   and  adore 

Her  face  and   form;   and,"  Dave  went  on  — 

When  came  a  man  there  pale  and  wan, 

Whose   face   was  dark   and   wet  though   kind. 

He,  coming  there,  seemed  like  a  wind 

Whose  breath  is  rain,  yet  will  not  stoji 

To  give  the  parched  flowers  a  drop : 

■■  Co,   children,    to   your   school,"   he   said, 

"  And  tell  the  master  Catharine's  dead." 

U'ill{(i)ii   II.   Piii'ics 


/'V  Eager  Spriiuj 

WHIRL,  snow,  on   the   blackbird's  chatter; 
^'ou    will    not    hinder    bis    song    to    come. 
East  wind,   Sleepless,  you   cannot   scatter 
Quince-bud.  almond-bud, 
Little  graiK'-hyacinth's 

21 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Clustering  brood, 

Nor  unfurl   the  tijis  of  the  plum. 

No  half  born  slalk  of  a  lily  stops; 

There  is  sap  in  the  storm-torn  bush ; 

And,  ruffled  by  gusts  in  a  snow-blurred  copse, 

'■  Pity  to  wait,"   sings   a   thrush. 

Love,  there  are  few  Springs  left  for  us; 
They  go,  and  the  count  of  them  as  they  go 
Makes  surer  the  count  that  is  left  for  us. 
More  than  the  East  wind,  more  than  the  snow, 
I  would  put  back  these  hours  that  bring 
Buds  and  bees  and  are  lost ; 
I  would  hold  the  night  and  the  frost. 
To  save  for  us  one  more  Spring. 

Cordon   Bottomlcv 


10  A  Song  of  April 

THE  censer  of  the  eglai-itine  was  moved 
By  little  lane  winds,  and  the  watching  faces 
Of   garden    flowerets,    which    of    old    she    loved. 
Peep   shyly   outward    from   their   silent   places. 
But    when    the    sun    arose    the    flowers    grew    bolder. 
And   she   will    be    in    white,    I    thought,    and   she 
Will  have  a  cuckoo  on  her  either  shoulder, 
And  woodbine  twines  and  fragrant  wings  of  pea. 

.\n<\  I   will  meet  her  on   the   hills  of   .South, 

And  I  will  lead  her  to  a  northern  water.  ^ 

My  wild  one,  the  sweet,  beautiful,  uncouth, 

22 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

The    eldest    maiden    of    the    Winter's    daughter. 
And  down  the  rainbows  of  her  noon  shall  slide 
Lark  music,  and  the  little   sunbeam  people 
And  nomad  wings   shall   fill   the   river  side, 
And  ground   winds  rocking  in   the   lily's  steeple. 

Francis  Lcdwidyc 


20  Spring 

EARTH  like  a  butterfly 
Leaps   in  gold 
From  its  chrysalis  old 
And   stiff   and   cold. 
A   frail  pale  sky 

On  the  brink  of  dissolving  in  dreams 
Covers  the  year's  new  birth ; 
While  a  passionless  sun  spinning  beams 
To  recapture  the  heart  of  the  earth  — 
Half  daring,  half  shy, 
Looking    ready    to    die, 
Like   a   sigh, 

I  f  a  violent  wind  went  by  — 
Marries    earth    to    the    sky. 

'I"hc  grass  breaks  in  rii)])k's  of  flowers, 

In  purple  and  chrome, 

As  a  sea  breaks  in  foam  : 

And  the  lilacs  in    fountains  and   showers 

Oi  emerald  rain,  fling 

Their  tiny  green  buds  on  the  wing  — 

Just  poised  on  the  edge  of  the  spring  — 

21 


TllJ':  lUJUK  OF 

To  tly 

Bye  and  bye, 

To  burst  into  loveliness  airily  fair. 

In  garlands  for  dryads  to  weave  in  their  hair, 

In  a  virginal  dance 

With  a  scent  to  entrance 

The   sweet   fickle   air  — 

And  late  when   the  evening 

Comes  subtle  and  blue, 

And  stars  are  all  opening 

Hearts  of  bright  dew  — 

The  sun  will  slip  easily, 

Tenderly, 

Bright, 

Out  of  sight. 

More  silver  than  gold 

To  behold  — 

Not  as  in  summer  he  dies, 

When  low  in  the  West  he  lies 

In  the   sanguine   flood 

Of  his  own  heart's  blood. 

Shot  by  the  shaft  of  the  maiden  moon. 

With  regret  in  his  eyes 

That   the  amazon  comes  too  soon. 

And  my   little   son 
Has  run 
From  me 

To  the  flowery  hills,  to  the  dappled  sea; 
For   somebody  told  him  that   shepherds  in   spring 
Taste  the  new  green  sap  of  the  old  green  trees. 
And  pluck  a  feather  from  the  wing 
24 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Of    a    throstle 

While  they  sing. 

All  together. 

In  a  ring. 

And  toss  it  up  into  the  breeze: 

And   their   brains 

Go  mad  with  the  ecstasy  coursing  their  veins, 

And  they  wreathe  them  in  violets,  dance  them  in  dew. 

Till   their   ankles   are   blue. 

Through  and  through 

Fjichantingly  cold  with   sweet  pains  — 

While  the  sun  in  the  clouds 

f  jold-dapples  the   sheei). 

Till  the  stars  in  bright  crowds 

Tempt  the  shepherds  to  sleep; 

Who  with  eyes,  wild  dark. 

And  hair  like  a  flame, 

Singing  still  like  the  lark. 

Cry   loud   on   the   name 

Of   each   his   f'oriima   to  come   and   be   tame 

To  his  love. 

I. ike  a  dove  ; 

And    their   shecj) 
Turn    to    silver  —  and    sleep. 
And  my  little  boy 
With   his  young  spring   joy 
Will    not    discover    the    le.nnness    of    truth  : 
With    the    magical. 
Tragical. 

Credence  of  youth 

He  will  think  the  sane  sluiiherds  he  meets  on  his  way 

-^5 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Are   mad   to-morrow 
To   his    sorrow, 
Or  yesterday. 

Hester  Sainsbury 


I  Sunrise  on  Rydal  JVatcr 

COME  down  at  dawn   from  windless  hills 
Into  the  valley  of  the  lake, 
Where   yet   a   larger  quiet   fills 

The  hour,  and  mist  and  water  make 
With   rocks   and   reeds   and   island   houghs 

One    silence   and   one   element. 
Where  wonder  goes  surely  as  once 
It  went 

By  Galilean  ])rows. 

Moveless   the  water  and  the  mist, 

Moveless  the   secret   air  ahove, 
Hushed,  as  upon  some  happy  tryst 

The  poised  expectancy  of  love; 
What  spirit  is  it  that  adores 

What   mighty   i)resence   yet   unseen? 
What  consummation  works  apace 

Between 

These  rapt  enchanted  shores? 

X'ever  did  virgin  beauty  wake 

Devouter  to  the  bridal  feast 
Than  moves  this  hour  upon  the  lake 

In  adoration  to  the  east. 

26 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Here  is  the  bride  a  god  may  know, 
The  primal  will,  the  young  consent. 

Till  surely  upon  the  appointed  mood 
Intent 

The  god  shall  leap  —  and,  lo. 

Over  the  lake's  end  strikes  the  sun  — 

White,  flameless  fire ;  some  i)urity 
Thrilling  the  mist,  a  splendor  won 

Out  of  the  world's  heart.     Let   there  l)e 
Thoughts,  and  atonements,  and  desires: 

F'roud  limbs,   and  undeliberate  tongue; 
Where  now  we  move  with  mortal  care 

.Among 

Immortal  dews  and  fires. 

So  the  old   mating  goes   apace. 

Wind    with    tlic    sea.    and    ijlood    with    thought. 
Lover  with  lover;  and  the  grace 

Of  understanding  comes  unsought 
'A'hen   stars  into  the  twilight   steer. 

Or  thrushes  build  among  the  may. 
( )r  wonder  moves  between   the  iiills. 

And  day 

ConK^i  u\)  on   Rydai   mere. 

John   Prink  water 


27 


THE  BOOK  OF 


22  The  Bird  at  Dawn 

WHAT   I   saw   was  just  one  eye 
In  the  dawn  as  I  was  going: 
A  bird  can  carry  all  the  sky 
In  that  little  button  glowing. 

N'ever  in  my  life  1   went 
So  deep   into   the   firmament. 

He   was   standing  on   a  tree, 

All  in  blossom  overflowing; 

And  he  purposely  looked  hard   at   me, 

At  first,  as  if  to  question  merrily: 

"Where   are   you   going?" 

But  next  some  far  more  serious  thing  to  say; 

I  could  not  answer,  could  not  look  away. 

Oh,  that  hard,  round,  and  so  distracting  eye: 
Little  mirror  of  all  sky!  — 
And  then  the  after-song  another  tree 
Held,  and  sent  radiating  back  on  me. 

If  no  man  had  invented  human  word. 

And  a  bird-song  had  been 

The  only  way  to  utter  what  we  mean. 

What  would  we  men  have  heard, 

What  understood,  what  seen. 

Between  the  trills  and  pauses,  in  between 

The  singing  and  the  silence  of  a  bird? 

Harold  Monro 
28 


xMUDERX  BRITISH   VERSE 


2$  The  Kiiujiishcr 

IT  was  the    Rainbow  gave   thee  birth. 
And  left  thee  all  her  lovely  hues; 
And,  as  her  mother's  name   was  Tears, 

So  runs  it  in  thy  blood  to  choose 
For  haunts  the  lonely  pools,   and  keep 
In    company    with    trees   that    weep. 

Go  you  and,   with   such   glorious  hues. 

Live  with  proud  Peacocks  in  green  parks; 
On  lawns  as  smooth  as  shining  glass. 

Let   every   feather  show   its  mark ; 
Get  thee  on  boughs  and  clap  thy  wings 
Before  the  windows  of  proud  kings. 

Xay,  lovely  Bird,  thou  art  not  vain ; 

Thou  hast  no  proud.  aml)itious  mind ; 
I  also  love  a  fpiiet  place 

That's   green,   away    from   all    mankind: 
A   lonely   j)ool,   and   let   a   tree 
Sigh  with  her  bosom  over  nic. 

Jl'illiaiii  II.  DaziiS 


2.1  Netted  Slnnuberries 

I    AM    a    w  illow  wren  : 
I    twitter    in    the    grass    on    the    chimney-top; 
The    ai)ples    far    below    will    never    drop 
Or  turn  quite  bright,   though   when 

-") 


THE  BOOK  OF 

The   aimless  wind   is   still 
I  stand  upon  the  big  ones  and  T  peck 
And  find  soft  places,  leaving  spot  and  speck 
When  I  have  munched  my  fill. 

Apples  and  plums   1   know 

(Plums  are  dark  weights  and  full  of  golden  rain 
That  wets  neck-feathers  when  I  dip  and  strain, 
And   stickys   each    plumy    row). 

But   ])ast   my   well-kept   trees 

The  quick  small  woman  in  her  puffy  gown. 

That   flutters  as   if   its   sleeves   and   skirts   had   grown 

For  flying  and  airy  ease. 

Has  planted  little  bushes 

Of  large  cool  leaves  that  cover  and  shade  and  hide 
Things  redder  than  plums  and  with  gold  dimples  i)ied. 
Dropping  on  new-cut  rushes. 

At  first  I  thought  with  spite 

Such  heady  scent  w-as  only   a   flower's   wide  cup : 
But   flower-scents   never   made   my   throat   close   up. 
And  so  I  stood  in  my  flight. 

Yet  over  all  there  sways 

A  web  like  those   revealed  by  dawn   and  dew, 
But  not  like  those  that  break  and  let  me  through 
Shivering  the  drops  all  ways. 

Though  I  alight  and  swing 

I   never   reach  the  things  that   tumble   and   crush, 
30 


MODERX  BRITISH  \ERSE 

And   if   I  had  such   long  large  legs   as  a  thrush 
The  web  would  tangle  and  cling. 

Gordon  Botfottilcv 


The  J  rind 

WHY   docs  the   wind  so  want  to  i)e 
Here   in   my   little   room   with   me? 
He's  all   the   world  to  blow   about. 
But  just  because  I   keep  him  out 
He  cannot  be  a   moment   still. 
But   frets  upon   my  window   sill. 
And   .sometimes  brings  a  noisy   rain 
To  help  him  batter  at  the  iianc. 

Upon  my  door  he  comes  to  knock. 
He  rattles,  rattles  at  the  lock 
And  lifts  the  latch  and  stirs  the  key  — 
Then  waits  a  moment  breathlessly. 
.And   soon,   more   fiercely   than   before, 
He  shakes  my   little   trembling  door. 
.\m\  though  "  Come  in,  come  in  !  "  I  say, 
He  neither  comes  nor  goes  away. 

l'.aref*)ot  across  the  chilly   thjor 
I    run   and  open   wiiie  the  door; 
He  rushes  in  and  back  again 
He  goes  to  batter  door  and  pane, 
Pleased  to  have  blown  my  candle  out. 
He's  all   the   world  to  blow   about, 

31 


THE  BOOK  or" 

Why  does  he  want  so  much  to  be 
Here  in  my  little  room  with  me? 

Elizabeth  Kendall 


26  In  the  Country 

THIS  life  is  sweetest:  in  tliis  wood 
I  hear  no  children  cry  for  food: 
I    see  no  woman,   white   with   care: 
No  man,  with  muscles  wasting  here. 

No  doubt  it  is  a  selfish  thing 

To  fly  from  human  suffering; 

No  doubt  he  is  a  selfish  man, 

Who  shuns  poor  creatures  sad  and  wan. 

But  'tis  a  wretched  life  to   face 
Hunger  in  almost  every  place ; 
Cursed   with   a   hand  that's   emjjty.   when 
The  heart  is   full  to  help  all  men. 

Can   I   admire   the   statue   great. 
When  living  men  starve  at  its  feet ! 
Can  I  admire  the  .park's  green  tree, 
A  roof  for  homeless  misery ! 

When  I  can  see  few  men  in  need, 
I  then  have  power  to  help  by  deed, 
Nor  lose  my  cheerfulness  in  pity  — 
Which  I  must  do  in  every  city. 
32 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

For  when   1   am   in  those  great  places,  • 
I    see    ten    thousand    suffering    faces: 
Before  me  stares  a  wolfish  eye, 
Behind  me  creeps  a  groan  or  sigh. 

William  II.  Davics 


2 J  Behind  the  Closed  Eye 

IW'ALK  the  old  frequented  ways 
That  wind  around  the  tangled  braes, 
I   live   again   the   sunny  days 
Ere  I  the  city  knew. 

.-\nd  scenes  of  old  again   are  born. 
The  woodbine  lassoing  the  thorn. 
And  drooping  Ruth-like  in  the  corn 
The   poppies   weep   the   dew. 

.\bove   me   in    their   hundred    scIiocjIs 
The  magpies  bend  tiuir  \ouiig  in  rules, 
.\nd  like  an  aj)rnn   full  of  jewels 
The  dewy  cobweb  swings. 

.\nd    frisking   in   the   stream   below 
The  troutlets  make  the  circles  flow, 
.And  the  hungry  crane  doth   watch  them  grow 
As  a  smoker  does  his  rings. 

.•\bove  me  smokes  the  little  town. 
With  its  whitewashed  walls  and  roofs  of  l)ni\\n 

33 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And   its   octagon    spire   toned   smoothly   down 
As  the  holj-  minds  within. 

And   wondrous  impudently  sweet, 
Half  of  him  passion,  half  conceit. 
The  hlackbird  calls  adown  the  street 
Like  the  piper  of  Hanielin. 

I   hear  him,   and   I    feel   the   lure 
Drawing  me  back  to  the  homely  moor, 
I'll  go  and  close  the  mountains'  door 
On   the  city's  strife  and  din. 

Francis  Lcdividge 


28  IVandcrlust 

BEYOND  the   East  the  sunrise,  beyond  the  West 
the  sea, 
And  East  and  West  the   wanderlust   that   will   not  let 

me  be ; 
It    works    in    me    like    madness,    dear,    to   bid    me    say 

good- by ! 
For  the  seas  call  and  the  stars  call,  and  oh,  the  call 
of  the   sky ! 

I  know  not  where  the  white  road  runs,  nor  what  the 

blue  hills  are, 
But  man  can  have  the  sun  for  friend,  and  for  his  guide 

a  star; 

34 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

And  there's  no  end  of  voyaging  when  once  the  voice 

is  heard. 
I-'or  the  river  calls  and  the  road  calls,  atid  oh,  the  call 

of  a  bird  ! 

^'onder  the  long  horizon  lies,  and  there  by  night  and 

day 
The   old  ships   draw  to  home   again,   the  yonng  shi])s 

sail  away : 
And  come  I  may.  but  go   I  must,  and  if  men  ask  you 

why, 
^'ou  may  ])ut  the  blame  on  the  stars  and  the  sun  and 

the  white  road  and  the  sky  ! 

Gerald   Gould 


'9  The  South  Country 

WIII'.X  I  am  living  in  the  Midlands 
That  are  sodden  and  unkind. 
I  light  my  lamp  in  the  evening: 

My  work   is  left  behind; 
.\nd  the  great  hills  of  the  .Soulli  (  ountry 
Come  back   into  my  mind. 

The  great   hills  of   the   South   (  ountry 

They  stand  alf)ng  the  sea ; 
.\nd   it's   there   walking  in   the   high    wood.s 

That  I  coubl  wish  to  be, 
.\nd  the   men   that   were  boys   when    I    u.is   a   boy 

Walking  along  with  me. 

35 


THE  BOOK  OF 

The  men  that  live  in  North  England 

I  saw  them  for  a  day : 
Their  hearts  are  set  upon  the  waste  fells, 

Their  skies  are  fast  and  gray ; 
From  their  castle-walls  a  man  may  sec 

The  mountains  far  away. 

The  men  that  live  in  West  England 

They   see  the   Severn  strong, 
A-rolling  on   rough   water  brown 

Light  aspen  leaves  along. 
They  have  the  secret  of  the  Rocks, 

And  the  oldest  kind  of  song. 

But  the  men  that  live  in  the  South   Country 

Are   the   kindest   and   most   wise, 
They  get  their  laughter  from  the  loud  surf, 

And  the  faith  in  their  happy  eyes 
Comes  surely   from  our   Sister  the  Spring 

When  over  the  sea  she  flies; 
The  violets  suddenly  bloom  at  her  feet, 

She  blesses  us  with  surprise. 

I   never  get  between  the  pines 

But  I  smell  the  Sussex  air ; 
Nor  I  never  come  on  a  belt  of  sand 

But  my  home   is   there. 
And  along  the  sky  the  line  of  the  Downs 

.So  noble  and  so  bare. 

A  lost  thing  could  1  never  find, 
Nor  a  broken   thing  mend : 
36 


MODERN  BRITISH  \ERSE 

And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone 

When  I  get  towards  the  end. 
Who  will  there  be  to  comfort  me 

Or  who  will  be  my  friend? 

I   will  gather   and   carefully  make   my   friends 

Of  the  men  of  the  Sussex  Weald. 
They  watch  the  stars  from  silent   folds. 

They  stiffly  plough  the  field. 
l>y  them  and  the  God  of  the  South  Country 

My  poor  soul  shall  he  healed. 

If   I   ever  become  a   rich   man, 

Or  if  ever  I  grow  to  be  old, 
I   will   build  a  house   with   deep  thatch 

To  shelter  me  from  the  cold, 
And  there  shall   the   Sussex  songs  be   sung 

-And  the  story  of  Sussex  told. 

1   will  hold  my  house  in  the  high   wood 

Within  a  walk  of  the  sea, 
-And   the   men   that   were   boys   wlu'ii    I    was   a   boy 

.Shall  sit  and  drink  with  nic. 

I/ildirc   Hclloc 


I   .  I )n   the  MniiJildiiiy  Sin(/ct' 

I.\.M   the  mountainy  singer  — 
The  voice  of  the  peasant's  dream. 
The  cry  of  the  wind  on  the  woofled  hill, 
Thf  leap  of  the  fish   in  the  stream. 

37 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Quiet  and  love  I   sing  — 
The  cairn  on  the  mountain  crest, 
The  cailin  in  her  lover's  arms, 
The  child  at  its  mother's  hreast. 

Beauty  and  peace  I  sing  — 

The  fire  on  the  open  hearth,   > 

The  caill  each  spinning  at  her  wheel. 

The  plough   in   the   hroken   earth. 

Travail   and  pain  I   sing  — 
The  bride  on  the  childing  bed. 
The  dark  man  laboring  at  his  rhymes. 
The  ewe  in  the  lambing  shed. 

Sorrow  and  death  I  sing  — 
The   canker   come   on   the   corn. 
The  fisher  lost  in  the  mountain  loch, 
The  cry  at  the  mouth  of  morn. 

No  other   lite   I    sing. 

For  I  am  sprung  of  the  stock 

That  broke  the  hilly  land   for  bread. 

And  built  the  nest  in  the  rock  ! 

' Seosamh  MacCaflnnhaoil  (Joseph  CamphcU) 


The  Ascetics 

AGES  long  the  hills  have  stood 
A  solitary  brotherhood. 
Ages  long  with  sinews  bare 
They  have  shouldered  the  keen  air, 
38 


MODERN  BRITISH  \ERSE 

They  have  wrestled  with  the  skies 
Iliddenly  for  a  dark  prize. 

Merry  Spring  with  her  wanton  train 

Tiptoes,   tiptoes   by   in   vain ; 

^'e,   O  hills,  never  behold 

Her  brave  dust  of  green  and  gold 

Flashing  by,  the  pride,  the  mirth, 

The  myriad  fluttering  of  the  earth. 

This  wild  magic  ye  have  lost  — 
Tell  me.  at  so  bitter  cost. 
What  the  guerdon  ye  have  won  ? 

"Speech  with  the  moon,  speech  with  the  sun; 

Valiancy  to  meet  unbowed 

The   challenge   of   the  thundercloud, 

And,  to  quicken  us  for  fresh  wars, 

Gay  communion  with  the  stars  !  " 

George  Rostrevor 


^2  Reciprocity 

I  DO  not  think  that  skies  and  meadows  arc 
Moral,  or  that  the  fixture  of  a  star 
Comes  of  a  quiet   sjjirit,  or   that   trees 
Have  wisdom  in  their  windless  silences. 
^'ct  these  are  things  invested  in  my  mood 
With  constancy,  and  peace,  and   fortitude, 
That   in   my   troubled   season    I   can   cry 
Upon  the  wide  composure  of  the  .sky, 

39 


'I'lll-:   !',()( )K   OF 

And  envy   fields,   and   wisli   that   I    nii<>ht   l)e 
A"s  little  daunted  as  a  star  or  tree. 

John   Drinkwaicr 


^  Magic 

1L0VE  a  still  conservatory 
That's   full   of  giant,  breathless  palms, 
Azaleas,  clematis  and  vines. 

Whose  quietness  great  Trees  becalms 
Filling  the  air  with   foliage, 
A  curved  and  dreamy  statuary. 

I   like  to  hear  a  cold,  pure  rill 

Of  water  trickling  low,  afar 
With  sudden  little  jerks  and  purls 

Into  a  tank  or  stoneware  jar, 
The  song  of  a  tiny  sleeping  bird 

Held  like  a  shadow  in  its  trill. 

I  love  the  mossy  quietness 

That  grows  upon  the  great  stone  flags, 
The  dark  tree-ferns,  the  staghorn   ferns. 

The  prehistoric,  antlered  stags 
That  carven  stand  and  stare  among 

The  silent,   ferny   wilderness. 

And  are  they  birds  or  souls  that  flit 

Among  the  trees  so  silently? 
And  are  they  fish  or  ghosts  that  haunt 

The  still  pools  of  the  rockery?  — 

40 


MODERN  BRITISH  \ERSE 

For  I  am  but  a  sculptured  rock 
As  in  that  magic  place  I  sit. 

Still  as  a  great  jewel  is  the  air 

With    boughs    and    leaves    smooth-carved    in    it, 
And  rocks  and  trees  and  giant  ferns, 

And  blooms  with  inner  radiance  lit. 
And  naked  water  like  a  nymi)h 

That  dances,  tireless,  slim  and  bare. 

I  watch  a  white  Xyanza  float 

Upon  a  green,  untroubled  pool. 
A   fairyland  Ophelia,  she 

Has  cast  herself  in    water  cool. 
And  lies  while  fairy  cymbals  ring, 

Drowned  in  her  fairy  castle  moat. 

The  goldfish  sing  a  winding  song 

Below   her   pale   and   waxen    face. 
The  water-nymph  is  dancing  by. 

Lifting   smooth   arms    with    mournful    grace, 
A  stainless   white  dream   she   flo;its  on 

While   fairies  beat   a    fairy  gong. 

."^ilent   the  Cattleyas  blaze 

And  thin  red  orchid  shapes  of  Death 
Peer  savagely  with  twisted  li])s 

Sucking  an    eerie,    i)hantf)m    brr.ith 
With  that  bright,  spotted,  fcvcr'd  lust 

That  watches  lonely  travellers  craze. 

41 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Gigantic,  mauve  and  hairy  leaves 

Hang  like  obliterated  faces 
Full  of  dim  unattained  expression, 

Such   as  haunts   virgin   forest  places 
When  Silence  leaps  among  the  trees 

And  the  echoing  heart  deceives. 

ll\  J.  Turner 


?-/  Stone  Trees 

LAST  night  a  sword-light  in  the  sky 
Flashed  a  swift  terror  on  the  dark. 
In  that  sharp  light  the  fields  did  lie 
Naked  and  stone-like;   each  tree  stood 
Like  a  tranced  woman,  bound  and  stark. 

Far  off  the  wood 
With  darkness  ridged  the  riven  dark. 

And  cows  astonied  stared  with  fear, 
And  sheep  crept  to  the  knees  of  cows, 
And  conies  to  their  burrows  slid. 
And   rooks  were   still   in   rigid  boughs, 
And  all  things  else  were  still  or  hid. 

From  all  the  wood 
Came  but  the  owl's  hoot,  ghostly,  clear. 

In  that  cold  trance  the  earth  was  held 
It  seemed,  an  age,  or  time  was  nought. 
Sure  never  from  that  stone-like  field 
Sprang  golden  corn,  nor  from  those  chill 
42 


MODERN  BRITISH  \'ERSE 

Grey  granite  trees  was  music  wrought. 

In  all  the  wood 
Even  the  tall  poplar  hung  stone  still. 

It  seemed  an  age,  or  time  was  none  .  .  . 
Slowly  the   earth   heaved   out   of   sleep 
And  shivered,   and   the   trees   of   stone 
Bent  and  sighed  in  the  gusty  wind, 
.\nd   rain  swept  as  birds  flocking  sweep. 

Far  off  the  wood 
Rolled  the  slow  thunders  on  the  wind. 

From  all  the  wood  came  no  brave  bird, 

No   3ong    broke    through    the    close-fall'n    night, 

Nor  any  sound  from  cowering  herd : 

Only  a  dog's  long  lonely  howl 

When   from  the  window  poured  pale  light. 

And   from  the  wood 
The  hoot  came  ghostly  of  the  owl. 

J  oil  II    FrcoiHin 


^?3         //  /  Should  pA'cr  by  Cliancc 

IF   I    should   ever   by   chance   grow    rich 
I'll  buy  Codham,  Cockriddcn.  and  ChihkTditcii. 
Roses,  Pyrgo,  and  Lapwatcr, 
.\nd   let   them   all   to  my   elder  daughter. 
The  rent   I  .shall  ask  of  her  will  be  only 
Each  year's  first  violets,  white  and  b^nely. 
The  first   i)rimroses   and   orchises  — 
.She  must  find  them  before  I  do.  that  is. 

43 


THE  BOOK  OF 

But  if  she  finds  a  blossom  on  furze 
Without  rent  they  shall  all  for  ever  be  hers, 
Codham,  Cockridden,  and  Childerditch, 
Roses,    Pyrgo,    and   Lapwater, — 
I  shall  give  them  all  to  my  elder  daughter. 

Edward    Thomas 


36  What  Shall  I  Give? 

WHAT  shall  I  give  my  daughter  the  younger 
More  than  will  keep  her  from  cold  and  hunger? 
I   shall  not  give  her   anything. 
H  she  shared  South  Weald  and  Havering, 
Their  acres,  the  two  brooks  running  between 
Paine's  Brook  and  Weald   Brook, 
With  peewit,   woodpecker,  swan,  and  rook, 
She  would  be  no  richer  than  the  queen 
Who  once  on  a  time  sat  in  Havering  Bower 
Alone,  with  the  shadows,  pleasure  and  power. 
She  could  do  no  more  with   Samarcand, 
Or  the  mountains  of  a  mountain  land. 
And  its  far  white  house  above  cottages. 
Like   Venus   above   the    Pleiades. 
Her  small  hands  I  would  not  cumber 
With  so  many  acres  and  their  lumber. 
But  leave  her  Steep  and  her  own  world 
And  her  spectacled  self  with  hair  uncurled, 
Wanting  a  thousand  little  things 
That    time    without    contentment    brings. 

Edivard  Thomas 
44 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


J7  //  /  J! 'ere  to  Own 

IF  I  were  to  own  this  countryside 
As  far  as  a  man  in  a  day  could  ride, 
And  the  Tyes  were  mine  for  giving  or  letting, — 
Wingle  Tye  and  Margaretting 
Tye.  and  Skreens,  Gooshays,   and  Cockerells, 
Shellow.   Rochetts,   Bandish,  and  Pickerells, 
Martins,  Lambkins,  and  Lillyputs, 
Their  copses,  ])onds,  roads,  and  ruts. 
Fields  where  plough-horses  steam  and  plovers 
Fling  and  whimper,  hedges  that  lovers 
Love,  and  orchards,   shrubberies,  walls 
Where  the  sun  untroubled  by  north  wind   falls, 
And  single  trees  where  the  thrush   sings  well 
His  proverbs  untranslatable. 
I  would  give  them  all  to  my  son 
H   he   would  let   me   any  one 
I'"or  a  song,  a  blackbird's  song,  at  dawn. 
lie  would  have  no  more,  till  on  my  lawn 
Never  a  one  was  left,  because  I 
Had  shot  them  to  put  them  into  a  i)ie, — 
His  Essex  blackbirds,  every   one, 
.And  I  was  left  old  and  alone. 

Then  unless  I  could  pay,  for  rent,  a  song 
As  sweet  as  a  blackbird's,  and  as  long  — 
No  more  —  he  should  have  the  house,  not   I: 
Margaretting  or  Wingle  Tye, 

Or  it  might  be  Skreens,  Gooshays,  or  Cockerells, 

45 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Shellow,  Rochetts,  Bandisli,  or  PickercUs, 

Martins,  Lambkins,  or  Lillyputs, 

Should  be  his  till  the  cart  tracks  had  no  ruts. 

Edzvani  Thomas 


S8  And   You.  Helen 

AND  you,  Helen,  what  should  I  give  you? 
So  many  things  I  would  give  you 
Had  I  an  infinite  great  store 
Offered  me  and  I  stood  before 
To  choose.     I  would  give  you  youth, 
All  kinds  of  loveliness  and  truth, 
A  clear  eye  as  good  as  mine. 
Lands,  waters,  flowers,  wine. 
As  many  children  as  your  heart 
Might  wish  for,  a  far  better  art 
Than  mine  can  be,  all  you  have  lost 
Upon  the  travelling  waters  tossed 
Or  given   to  mc.     If   I   could  choose 
Freely   in   that   great   treasure-house 
Anything   from   any   shelf, 
I  would  give  you  back  yourself. 
And   power   to   discriminate 
What  you  want  and  want  it  not  too  late. 
Many  fair  days  free   from  care 
And  heart  to  enjoy  both  foul  and  fair, 
And  myself,  too,  if  I  could  find 
Where  it  lay  hidden  and  it  proxed  kind. 

lidzvard  Thomas 
46 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


3P  The   I'ish 

IS   a   cool   curving   world   he   lies 
And  ripples  with  dark  ecstasies. 
The  kind  luxurious  lapse  and  steal 
Shapes  all  his  luiiverse  to  feci 
And  know  and  be;  the  clingino  stroani 
("loses  his  memory,   glooms  his  dream. 
Who   lips   the    roots   o'   the   shore,   and   glides 
Super!)   on    unrcturning   tides. 
Those  silent  waters  weave  for  him 
.\  fluctuant  mutable  world  and  dim, 
Where  wavering  masses  bulge  and  gai)e 
Mysterious,   and   shape  to   shape 
Dies   momently   through    whorl    and   hollow. 
.\nd  form  and  line  and  solid  follow 
Solid  and  line  and  form  to  dream 
Fantastic  down  the  eternal  stream; 
An  obscure  world,  a   shifting  world, 
Piulbous,  or  i)ulled  to  thin,  or  curled, 
Or  serpentine,  or  driving  arrows. 
Or  serene   sliding,   or   March   narrows. 
There  slii)ping  wave  and  shore  arc  one, 
.\nd   weed   and  mud.     Xo   ray  of   sun. 
Hut  glow  to  glow   fades  down  the  deej) 
f.\s  dream  to  unknown  dre;ini  in   sleej) )  ; 
Shaken    translucency    illumes 
The  hyaline  of  drifting  glooms; 
The   strange    soft-handed   de|)th    subdues 
Drowned  colour  there,  but  black  to  hues, 

47 


THl':  ROOK  ()l« 

As   death   to   livint:;,    (kct)mposes — 
Red  darkness  of  the  heart  of  roses. 
Blue  brilliant   from  dead  starless  skies, 
And  gold  that  lies  behind  the  eyes, 
The  unknown  unnameable  sightless  white 
That  is  the  essential  flame  of  night, 
Lusterless  purple,  hooded  green, - 
The  myriad  hues  that   lie  between 
Darkness  and  darkness !  .  .  . 

And  all's  one. 
Gentle,  embracing,  quiet,  dun. 
The  world  he  rests  in,  world  he  knows, 
Perpetual   curving.     Only  —  grows 
And  eddy  in  that  ordered  falling 
A  knowledge  from  the  gloom,  a  calling 
Weed   in  the   wave,  gleam   in   the   mud  — 
The  dark  fire  leaps  along  his  blood; 
Dateless  and  deathless,  blind  and  still. 
The  intricate  impulse  works  its  will ;  - 
His   woven    world   drops   back ;   and   he. 
Sans  providence,   sans  memory. 
Unconscious   and   directly   driven 
Fades    to    some    dank    sufficient    heaven. 

O  world   of  lips,   O  world  of  laughter, 

Where  hope   is   fleet   and   thought   flies   after. 

Of  lights  in  the  clear  night,  of  cries 

That  drift  along  the  wave  and  rise 

Thin  to  the  glittering  stars  above. 

You  know  the  hands,  the  eyes  of  love ! 

48 


1' 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

The  strife  of  limbs,  the  sightless  clinging, 
The  infinite  distance,  and  the  singing 
Blown  by  the  wind,  a  flame  of  sound,  . 
The  gleam,  the  flowers,  and  vast  around 
The  horizon,  and  the  heights  above  — 
You  know  the  sigh,  the  song  of  love  ! 

But  there  the  night  is  close,  and  there 
Darkness  is  cold  and  strange  and  bare; 
And  the  secret   deeps  arc  whisperless; 
And  rhythm  is  all  deliciousncss ; 
And  joy   is   in   the  throbbing  tide. 
Whose  intricate  tnigcrs  treat  and  glide 
In  felt  bewildering  harmonies 
Of  trembling  touch;  and  music  is 
The   exquisite   knocking   of   the   blood. 
Space  is  no  more,  under  the  mud ; 
His  bliss  is  older  than  the  sun. 
Silent   and   straight   the   waters   run. 
The  lights,  the  cries,  the  willows  dim. 
And  the  dark  tide  arc  one  with  him. 

K II perl   Brooke 


Mole 

TUXXELLED  in  .solid  blackness  creeps, 
The  old  mole-soul  and  wakes  or  sleeps, 
He  knows  not  which,  but  tiuinds  on 
Tlirough  ages  of  oblivion. 
L'ntil   at   last    the    long   constraint 

4«) 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Of  each  haiulwall  is  lost  and  faint ; 
Comes  daylight  creeping  from  afar; 
And  mole-work  grows  crepnscular. 
Tunnel  meets  air  atul  bursts;  mole  sees 
Men  hugely  walking  ...  or  are   they  trees? 
And   far  horizons  smoking  blue 
And  wandering  clouds  for  ever  new, 
Green  hills,  like  lighted  lamps  aglow 
Or  quenching  'neath  the  cloud-shadow. 
Quenching  and  blazing  turn  by  turn 
Spring's  great  green  signals  fitfully  burn. 
Mole  travels  on,  but  finds  the  steering 
A  harder  task  of  pioneering 
Than  when  he  thridded  through  the  strait, 
Blind  catacombs  that  ancient  fate 
Had  carved  for  him.     Stupid  and  dumb 
And  blind  and  touchless  he  had  come 
A  way  without  a  turn ;  but  here 
Under  the  sky  the  passenger 
Chooses  his  own  be.st  way,  and  mole 
Distracted  wanders ;  yet  his  hole 
Regrets  not  much  wherein  he  crept 
But  runs,  a  joyous  nympholcpt. 
This  way  and  that,  by   all  made   mad: 
River  nymph  and  Oread, 
Ocean's  daughters,  and  Lorelei 
Combing    the    silken    mystery. 
The  glaucous  gold  of  her   rivery  tresses  .  .  . 
Each  haunts  the  traveller,  each  possesses 
The   drunken   wavering  soul   awhile. 
Then  with  a  phantom's  cock-crow  smile 
Mocks  craving  with   sheer   vanishment. 
50 


MODERN'  BRITISH  VERSE 

Mole-eyes  grow  hawk's ;  knowledge  is  lent 

In  grudging  driblets  that  pay  high 

L'nconscionable  usury 

To  relenting  life.     Mole  learns 

To  travel  more  secure :  the  turns 

Of  his  long  way  less  ])uzzling  seem 

And  all  those  magic  forms  tliat  gleam 

In  airy  invitation  cheat 

Less  often  than  they  did  of  old. 

The  earth  slopes  upward,  fold  on  fold 

Of  quiet  hills  that  meet  the  gold 

Serenity  of  western  skies. 

Over  the  worlds  edge  with  clear  eyes 

Our  mole  transcendent  sees  his  way 

Tunnelled  in  light.     He  must  obey 

Necessity  again  and  thrid 

Close  catacombs  as  erst  he  did, 

Fate's  tunnellings  himself  must  bore 

Through  the  sunset's  inmost  core. 

The  guiding  walls  to  each  hand  shine 

Luminous   and   crystalline; 

And  mole  shall   tunnel  on   and  on 

Till    night    let    fall    oblivion. 

Aldoits  L.  Huxley 


41  The  Hull 

SEE  an  unhappy  bull. 
Sick  in  soul  and  body  both, 
Slouching  in   the  undergrowth 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Of  the   forest   beautiful, 
Banished  from  the  herd  he  led, 
Bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  head 

Cranes  and  gaudy  parrots  go 

Up  and  down  the  burning  sky ; 

Tree-top  cats  purr  drowsily 

In  the  dim-day  green  below ; 

And    troops    of    monkeys,    nutting,    some, 

All    disputing,    go    and    come ; 

And  things  abominable  sit 
Picking  offal  buck  or  swine, 
On  the  mess  and  over  it 
Burnished  flies  and  beetles  shine 
And  spiders  big  as  bladders  lie 
Under  hemlocks  ten  foot  high ; 

And   a   dotted   serpent   curled 

Round  and  round  and  round  a  tree. 

Yellowing  its  greenery, 

Keeps  a  watch  on  all  the  world, 

All  the  world  and  this  old  bull 

In  the  forest  beautiful. 

Bravely  by  his   fall  he  came: 
One  he  led,  a  bull  of  blood 
Newly  come  to  lustihood. 
Fought  and  put  his  prince  to  shame 
Snuffed  and  pawed  the  prostrate  head 
Tameless   even    while    it    bled. 
52 


MODERN'   BRri'lSll   \ERSE 

There  they  left  him,  every  one, 
Left  him  there  without  a  lick, 
Left  him  for  the  birds  to  pick, 
Left  him  there  for  carrion, 
\'ilely  from  their  bosom  cast 
Wisdom,  worth  and  love  at  last. 

When  the  lion  left  his  lair 

And  roare'd  his  beauty  through  the  hills, 

And  the  vultures  iicckcd  their  quills 

And  flew  into  tlie  middle  air. 

Then  this  prince  no  more  to  reign 

Came  to   life   and   lived   again. 

He  snuffed  the  herd  in  far  retreat, 
He  saw  the  blood  upon  the  ground. 
And  snuffed  the  burning  airs  around 
.Still  with  beevish  odours  sweet. 
While  the  blood  ran  down  his  head 
,\nd  his  mouth   ran   slaver  red. 

I'ity   him,  this   fallen   chief, 

.Ml   his  splendour,   all  his  strength 

.Ml    his    body's    breadth    and    length 

Dwindled   down   with    sli.nne   and   grief, 

Ua\i  the  bull   he   was  before, 

Bones  and  leather,  nothing  more. 

See   him   standing   dewlap-dccp 
In   the   rushes   at   the   lake. 
Surly,   stupid,   half  asleep. 
Waiting   for  his   heart  to   break 


53 


TJli:  liUOK  OF 

And  the  birds  to  join  the  flies 
Feasting  at  his  bloodshot  eyes, — 

Standing  w  itli  his  head  hung  down 
In   a  stupor,  dreaming  things: 
Green  savannas,  jungles  brown. 
Battlefields  and  bellowings. 
Bulls  undone  and  lions  dead 
And  vultures  flapjiing  overhead. 

Dreaming  things :  of  days  he  spent 
With  his  mother  gaunt  and  lean 
In  the  valley  warm  and  green, 
I'ull  of  baby  wonderment, 
Blinking  out  of  silly  eyes 
At  a  hundred  mysteries; 

Dreaming    over    once    again 
How  he  wandered   with  a  throng 
(Jf  bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  strong, 
Wandered  on   from  ])lain  to  ])lain. 
Up  the  hill  and  down  the  dale, 
Always  at  his  mother's  tail; 

How  he  lagged  behind  the  herd, 
Lagged  and  tottered,  weak  of  limb, 
And  she  turned  and  ran  to  him. 
Blaring  at  the  loathly  bird 
Stationed  always  in  the  skies 
Waiting    for   the   flesh    that   dies. 

54 


MODERX  BRITISH   \  ERSE 

Dreaming  m.'ivbe   of  a   day 
When  lier  drained  and  drying  paps 
Turned  liini  to  the  sweets  and  saps. 
Richer   fountains  hy  the  way. 
And    she   left    the    hull    she    bore 
And  he  looked  to  lier  no   more ; 

An<l  his  little  frame  grew  stout, 
And  his  little  legs  grew  strong 
And  the  way  was  not  so  long; 
And  his  little  horns  came  out. 
And  he  played  at  butting  trees 
And  boulder-stones  and  tortoises. 

Joined  a  game   of  knoitljy   skulls 
With    the   youngsters   of   his   year, 
All   the   other   little   bulls, 
Learning  both  to  bruise  and  bear, 
Learning  how  to  stand  a  shock 
Like  a  little  bull  of  rock. 

Dreaming  oi  a  day  les>  dim. 
Dreaming  of  a  time  less  far. 
When  the   faint  but  certain   ^tar 
()f   destiny    burned   clear    for   him, 
And  a  fierce  and  wild  unrest 
r.roke  the  cptiet  of  his  breast. 

And  the  gristles  of  his  youtli 
Hardened  in  his  comely  pow, 
.And  he  came  to  fighting  growth, 
Beat  his  bull  and  won  his  cow, 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And  flew  Iiis  tail  and  tranii)lc(l  off 
Passed   the   tallest,   vain   enough, 

And  curved  about  in  bi)lendour  full 
And  curved  again  and  snuffed  the  airs 
As  who  should  say  Come  out  who  dares ! 
And  all  beheld  a  bull,  a  Bull, 
And  knew  that  here  was  surely  one 
That  backed  for  no  bull,  fearing  none. 

And  the  leader  of  the  herd 
Looked  and  saw,  and  beat  the  ground, 
And  shook  the  forest  with  his  sound, 
Bellowed   at  the   loathly  bird 
Stationed  always  in  the  skies 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

Dreaming,    this    old    bull    forlorn, 
Surely  dreaming  of  the  hour 
\\hen  he  came  to  sultan  j)0\ver, 
And  they  owned  him  master-horn, 
Chiefest  bull  of  all  among 
Bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  strong; 

And  in  all  the  tram])ing  herd 
Not  a  bull  that  barred  his  way, 
Not  a  cow  that  said  him  nay, 
Not  a  bull  or  cow  that  erred 
In  the  furnace  of  his  look. 
Dared  a  second,  worse  rebuke ; 

56 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Not   in  all  the   forest   wide, 
Jungle,  thicket,  pasture,  fen, 
Xot  another  dared  him  then. 
Dared  him  and  again  defied; 
Not  a  sovereign  buck  or  boar 
Came  a  second  time  for  more; 

Not  a  serpent  that  survived 
Once  the  terrors  of  his  hoof 
Risked   a   second   time   reproof. 
Came  a  second  time  and  lived, 
Not  a  serpent  in  its  skin 
Came  again  for  discipline; 

Xot   a   leopard  bright  as  flame, 
Flashing  fingerhooks  of  steel, 
That   a  wooden  tree  might   feel, 
Met  his  fury  once  and  came 
For  a  second  reprimand, 
Xot  a  leopard  in  the  land; 

Xot  a  lion  of  them  all, 
Xot  a  lion  of  the  hills, 
Hero  of  a  thousand  kills. 
Dared  a  second  light  and   fall. 
Dared  that  ram  terrific  twice, 
F'aid  a  second  time  the  price.  .  .  . 

I'ity  him,  lhi>  (\u\iv  of  dream, 
Leader  of  the  herd  again 
Only  in  his  daft  old  brain. 
Once  again  (he  bull  supreme 


57 


TliE  BOOK  OF 

And  bull  eiiougli  to  l)ear  the  part 
Only  in  his  tameless  heart. 

Pity  him  that  he  must   wake; 
Even  now  the  swarm  of  flies 
Blackening  his  bloodshot  eyes 
Bursts  and  blusters  round  the' lake, 
Scattered  from  the  feast  half- fed. 
By  great   shadows  overhead. 

.•Xnd  the  dreamer  turns  away 
From  his   visionary  herds 
And   his   splendid   yesterday, 
Turns  to  meet  the  loathly  birds 
Flocking  round  him  from  the  skies. 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

Ralph   Hodgson 


Bodily  Beauty 

HFR  curving  l)Osom  images 
A  tender-folded  thought 
Whose   grace,    too    exquisite    for    speech, 
Was  in  her  body  wrought. 

The  shining  vale  between  her  breasts 

Is  like  a  <|uiet  joy. 
Such   as   no   malison  can   harm 
Xor   anv   shade  annov. 
58 


iMODERN  BRITISH  \  ERSE 

Yea,  all  her  bodily  beauly   is  r:-.  I 

A  subtle-fashioned  scroll,    .  "" 

Where  God  has  written  visibly 
Brave  hintings  of  her  soul. 

George  Rostrez'or 


-/Jl  Any  Loz'cr.  .lii\  Lass 

W\\\   are   her   eyes   so   brij^ht,   so   bright, 
Why   do   her   lips  control 
The  kisses  of  a  summer  night, 
Whc-n  I  would  love  her  soul  ? 

<  iod  set  her  brave  eyes  wide  apart 

And  painted  them  with   fire; 
They  stir  the  ashes  of  my  heart 

To  embers  of  desire. 

iler  lips  so  tenderly  arc  wrought 

In  so  divine  a  shape 
That   1   am  servant  to  my  thought 

And  can  nowise  esca|)f. 

Her  body  is  a  flower,  her  hair 

About  her  neck  doth   play ; 
I  find  her  colors  everywhere, 

They  are  the  pride  of  day. 

Her  little   hands   are   soft,   and   when 
I   see  her  fingers   move 


THE  BOOK  OF 

I  know  in  very  truth  that  men 
Have  died  for  less  than  love. 

Ah,  dear,  live,  lovely  thing !  my  eyes 

Have  sought  her  like  a  prayer; 
It  is  my  better  self  that  cries, 

"  Would   she   were    not    so    fair !  " 

Would  I  might  forfeit  ecstasy 

And   find   a   calmer  place, 
Where  I  might  undesirous  see 

Her  too  desired  face. 

Nor  feel  her  eyes  so  bright,  so  bright, 

Nor  hear  her  lips  unroll 
Dream  after  dream  the  lifelong  night. 

When  I  would  love  her  soul. 

Richard   Middleton 


44  "  Bid  Adieu  to  Girlish  Days  " 

BID   adieu,   adieu,   adieu, 
Bid   adieu   to   girlish    days, 
Happy   Love   is   come   to   woo 

Thee  and  woo  thy  girlish  ways  — 
The  zone  that  doth  become  thee  fair, 
The  snood  upon  thy  yellow  hair. 

When  thou  hast  heard  his  name  upon 
The  bugles  of  the  cherubim, 
60 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Begin  thou  softly  to  unzone 

Thy  girHsh  bosom  unto  him, 
And  softly  to  undo  the  snood 
That  is  the  sign  of  maidenhood. 

James  Joyce 


4^  Love  Came  to  Us 

LO\'E  came  to  us  in  time  gone  by 
When  one  at  twilight  shyly  played 
And  one  in  fear  was  standing  nigh 
For  Love  at  first  is  all  afraid. 

We  were  grave  lovers.     Love  is  past. 
That  had  his  sweet  hours  many  a  one; 
Welcome  to  us  now  at  the  last 
The  ways  that  we  shall  go  upon. 

James  Joyce 


46  After  Tzi'o  Years 

SMI-:  is  all   so  slight 
And  tender  and  white 
As  a  May  morning. 
She  walks  without  hood 
At  dusk.     It  is  good 
To  hear  her   sing. 

It  is  God's  will 

That    I    shall    love    her    still 

61 


THE  BOOK  OF 

As  He  loves  Mary. 
And  nij^lit  and  day 
I  will  go  foiih  to  j)ray 

That  she  love  mc. 

.She    is    as    _t;old 

Lovely,  and  far  more  cold. 

Ho  thou  i)ray  with  nie, 
I'or  if  I  win  grace 
To  kiss  twice  her  face 

God  has  done  well  to  me. 

.  Richard  AUliinjton 


4/  A  Song  of  Woman  s  Smiling 

I  HAVE  the  freedom  of  my  mouth 
As  never  yet  till  now ; 
Being  grey-haired,    I   may   be   the   South 

Of  womanhood's  warm  brow 
.\bove  a   smiling-out  that  beams 
On   all   my  world   from   deepening  dreams. 

My  head  is  all  a-blossomy 

With    snows   of   coming    fruit; 

My  heart  is  like  an   orchard  tree 
A-bud  with  growth's  pursuit ; 

I  in  strange  places  to  strange  eyes 

May  verily  smile  angelwise. 

Yea,   I   may  be  to  men   a  grace 
Of  what  in   me  is  bright, 
62 


MODERX  BRITISH  VERSK 

By  the  clear-shining  of  my  face. 

In  meekest  wisdom's  right ; 
Because  in  me  there  is  no  maid, 
Xor  minx,   of  whom  to  l)e  afraid. 

1  do  not  seek  them  ;  no   sweet    veil  .  :.: 

Of  girlhood's  modesty 
Is  fine  as  this  through  which   I   hail 

Their  hearts  with   sympathy  — 
Knit  of  the  sunned  hours  and  the  rains  — 
Dear  weather  of  life's  joys  and  pains. 

With   all  my  Love's  love  in  my  years. 

My  hrcath  flowers  as  the  sod: 
I  am  daisied  with  joy's  hloom   from  tears. 

Like  a  little  field  of  (iod ; 
By  every  smile's  ray  that  unfurls 
I  am  vdunger  than  all  glad,  sweet  girls. 

Something  like  .Karon's  rod  I  shine. 

T(j  the  world's  eyes  increased 
As   proof   mysteriously   divine 

My  dear  Love  is  God's  Priest. 
Whose  hallowing  of  my  mouth's  control 
Makes  me  a  smiling  of  hi^  soul. 

\vA,    I    am    girlhood's    verity 

In    womanhood    made   truth 
.\s    wisdom    that    is   ecstasy; 

Men    feel    my    sjiirit's   youth 
Smiles   into   such   a   happy   light 
l-'rom  (lod's  touch,  while  my  liair  turns  white. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Yea,  even  as  angelhood  it  feels. 

Sometimes,    for  Heaven  to  show 
This   freshness  which  my   freedom  seals:  — 

My  God !     I  thank  Thee  so 
For  giving  my  soul's  smiles  to  me 
In  such  a  precious  liberty. 

May  Doncv 


48  To  My  Wife 

WHEN  sere  has  touched  the  leaf  with  age 
And  Time  brings  Leisure's  glow, 
Turn  softly  o'er  this  scribbled  page 
And  learn  the  things  I  know. 
If  in  the  waning  summer  night 
A  fragrance  lightly  blows, 
When  winds  remember  roses  bright, 
Think  to  yourself  .  .  .  He  knows. 

When  sleeps  the  regal  sire  of  day 

In  western  glory  red, 

And   lazy,   crawling  mists   betray 

The  winding  river's  bed, 

When  moor  birds  call,  and  night  birds  cry, 

And  night  scents  fill  the  air 

From  winds  that  know  where  thyme-beds  lie, 

Think  to  yourself  .  .  .  He's  there. 

When  day  with  evening  fondly  parts 

Along  the  gorsy  hills, 

64 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

And  tawny  dusk  a  veil  imparts 
O'er  little  bogland  rills, 
Turn  to  the  thoughts  of  yesterday 
Among  the   cool   green   groves, 
And  think  that  always  and  for  aye 
As  well  as  now  .  .  .  He  loves. 

Yet  there  will  come  a  time  when  I, 
Dear  heart,  shall  leave  your  side 
As  stars  fade  quietly  from  the  sky 
When  dawn  wins  day  for  bride : 
Scent  of  the  fragrant  birk  and  briar 
May  fail  their  round  to  steer, 
Think  to  yourself  —  though  worlds  in  tire 
May  perish  .  .  .  He  is  here. 

James  C.  IVelsh 


4Q  C.  L.  M. 

IN  the  dark   woml)  where   I   began 
My  mother's  life  made  me  a  man. 
Through  all  the  months  of  human  birth 
Her  beauty   fed   my   common   earth. 
I  cannot  see,  nor  breathe,  nor  stir, 
But  through  the  death  of  some  of  her. 

Down   in  the  darkness  of  the  grave 
She  cannot  see  the  life  she  gave. 
For  all  her  love,  she  cannot  tell 
Whether  I  use  it  ill  or  well. 

65 


THE  BOOK  OF 

\or  knock  at  dusty  doors  to  iind 
Her  beauty  dusty  in  the  mind. 

li  the  grave's  gates  could  be  undone, 
She  would  not  know  her  little  son. 
I  am  so  grown.     H  we  should  meet 
She  would  pass  by  me  in  the  street. 
Unless  my  soul's  face  let  her  see 
My  sense  of  what  she  did  for  me. 

What  have  I  done  to  keej)  in  mind 

My  debt  to  her  and  womankind? 

What  woman's  happier  life  repays 

Her  for  those  months  of  wretched  days? 

For  all  my  mouthless  body  leached 

Ere    Birth's   releasing  hell   was   reached? 

\\  hat  have  1  done,  or  tried,  or  said 
In  thanks  to  that  dear  woman  dead? 
Men   triumph   over   women   still. 
Men  trample  women's  rights  at  will. 
And  man's  lust  roves  the  world  untamed. 

O  grave,   keep  shut   lest   I    be   shamed. 

John  Masclicld 


jo      The  Mandrake's  Horrid  Sereani 

WHY  ain't  the  Mester  back? 
Down   these   owd    Fens  there   ain't   noa   neigh- 
bours. 
An'  when  he's  finished  wi"  his  labours, 
66 


MODERN   BRITISH  VERSE 

He   gallops   ott    full    crack! 

I  sits  aloan  an'  shaakes  \vi'  fear 

While  he  be  rousin'  at  the  "  Deer."' 

Them  what's  in  towns  has  niver  tried 

To  live  aloan.  all  terrified; 

They  talk  about  churchyards  at   night, 

Or  things  wi'  chains  dressed  up  in  white: 

Why!     Bless  my  soul!     I'd  gladly  sleep 

In  any  place  what  made  them  creep! 

Coz  allers  they've  a   friend  about 

To  hear  if  they  should  give  a  shout! 

They  dunno  what  it  is  to  fear 

But  —  here  — 

IV hat's  that!' 

Only  the  cat ! 

An'  she's  as  black  as  Death's  own  self. 

She  squats  all  loathly  on  yon  shelf, 

Wi"  one  unwinkin'  eye  on  mc 

I  wish  the  Devil  — 

\o! 

Not  He! 

I  didn't  nuan   to  inLiition   names, 

Xor  interfere  wi'  others'  gaames : 

They  saay  as  cats  is  really  witches, 

Like  Betty  Williamson,  now  dead. 

What  uster  wear  her  husband's  breeches 

.An'   ate   the   queerest    food,    foak    said; 

She  set  beside  her  o]ten  door 

Wi'  one  foot  allers  off  the  thjcjr, 

(Juietly  knitting;  one  eye  cast 

To  overlook  you  as  you  pJissed: 

An'  just  the  same,  yon  nasty  critter 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Stares  at  me  now  that  soft  an'  bitter ! 
Oh,  Dear !     I  wish  my  man  would  come ! 

May  ague  twist,  an'  strike  him  dumb! 

May  fairies  nip  his  liver  out 

An'  leave  him  nare  a  tongue  to  shout. 

Forsaking  me.  all  loansome  here 

With  iverything  what's  wrong  and  queer. 

From  out  my  winder,  where  I  sit 
I   see  the  willows  round  yon  pit : 
Dark  Pit  where  Moller  Homes  was  found 
As    some    said, —  accidental    drowned  !  — 
But  I  heard  screechin',  terrified, 
About  the  time  he  must  a  died. 
Having  noa  bottom,  soa  they  say; 
Its  dreadful   secrets  there  must  stay 
Until  the   Resurrection   Day ! 
Oh   where  the   Devil   is  that   Tom  ? 
I'll  give  him   "pub"   when   he   gits   hoam : 
The  wind  is  moanin'  round  that  Pit 
As  if  somebody  wished  to  flit: 
There's  Things  in  there  what  stirs  by  night 
An'  if  you  see,  yer  hair  turns  white; 
Around,  they  say,  the  Mandrake  grows 
What's  pulled  at  dead  of  night  by  those 
Who  little  care  although  it  screams 
To  wake  poor  mortals  from  their  dreams. 
Our  parson  tells  of  Powers  Evil : 
(An'  Providence  can't  beat  the  Devil) 
Where  should  they  laay,  but  in  yon  Pit  ? 
W^hat  makes  me  squirl  to  think  on  it : 
All  gashly  arms  a-reachin'  out 
68 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

To  clamber   up   yer   water   spout 

An'  reach  you  through  — 

Oh  Lor! 

IVho's  that? 

'Tis   something  comin' 

I  hear  it  hummin'  .  .  . 

My  dear  good  Tom !     Thank  God  it's  him ! 

I  was  afraid  of  something  grim  — 

I've  bin  a-wantin"  you  soa  long  — 

You  lousy  mawkin',  stinkin'  strong 

Of  beer  an'  bacca  !     Off  to  bed! 

I'll  lam  yer,  Thomas,  who  you've  wed: 

'Fore  morn,  you'll  wish  as  you  was  dead. 

Bernard  Gilbert 


5/  An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads 

Oto  have  a  little  house ! 
To  own  the  hearth  and  stool   and  all ! 
The  heaped  up  sods  upon  the  fire. 
The  i)ile  of  turf  against  the  wall ! 

To  have   a   clock    with    weights   and   chains 
And    jjcndulum    swinging   up    and    d<nvn ! 
A  dresser  filled  with   shining  delft. 
Speckled  an<l  white  and  blue  and  brown  ! 


I  could  be  busy  all  the  day 

Clearing  and  sweeping  hearth  and  floor, 


69 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And   fixing  on   their  shelf   again 

My   white   and   blue   and   speckled   store ! 

I  could  he  quiet  there  at  night 
Besides   the   fire   and   by   myself, 
Sure  of  a  bed  and  loth  to  leave 
The  ticking  cloth  and  the  shining  delft  ! 

<  )ch  !  hut  I'm  weary  of  mist  and  dark. 

And    roads    where    there's    never    a    house    nor    hush, 

And  tired  I  am  of  bog  and  road. 

And  the  crying  wind  and  the  lonesome  hush  ! 

And  I  am  praying  to  (jod  on  high. 
And  I   am  praying  Him  night  and  day. 
For  a  little  house  —  a  house  of  my   own  — 
Out    of   the    wind's   and   the    rain's   way. 

Padraic  Colum 


:)^ 


Old  Woman  Forever  Sitting 


OLD   woman    forever   sitting 
Alone  in  the  large  hotel  under  the  fans. 
Infinitely  alone  where  around  you  spin 
So  many  lives  like  painted  toi)s. 
Smearing  the  void  a  moment  with  their  hues, 
Giddily  catching  at  balance  as  they  pause. 
What  crime  was  yours,  old  woman. 
What   sin   against   the   Earth 
That  she  should  give  you  now 
70 


MODERN  BRITISH   \  ERSE 

A  cap  of  dusi  and  furrows  on  your  cheeks, 

And  at  the  end 

A   liole   dug    in   the    mould? 

Is  death  the  promise  of  Fate's  last   rebound. 

Revenge  of  Time  that  waits  williin  the  clock 

And  laughs  awry  at  life, 

I'or   a   kiss,    for   a   dream,    lor   a   child    that   you   bore. 

For  a   fresh  rose  ])inned  to  your  bosom? 

The  owl  is  in  your  .spirit. 

Rlinking  through  the  oldest  tree  of  wisdom  — 

.\nd  now  your  fingers  are  weaving 

The  cold  ])ale  invisible  blossoms  of  death 

Into  a  waxen  wreath. 

And  Time 

Sits  down   beside  you  knitting  with  quick  hands 

Grey  counterpanes  to  cover  u])  a  grave ! 

Iris   Tree 


j^;  Xo  Wife 

T<  )M  I     Tom  I     W  hat    yer  think? 
F\c    ed   the    Parson's   wife 
The  first   time   in    er   life,   acrcst  our   door! 

What   for? 

What   for?     \\  hy<  Tom.  youd  niver  niver  guess! 

Not  if  you  lived  as  old  as  (irammer  Bess 

What's   lately    swore 

.She's   a   hunder   an"    four    - 

She  zvants  us  tivo.  to  (jn  off  an'  <jil  sf^lued! 

7' 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Oh   Christ! 

What's  got  'er  now: 

The  cow ! 

You  well  may  swear ; 

Coz  'ow  she  dare  —  an"  why  — 

Will   make   you    swear   agen,    or   laugh  —  surelie ! 

Just  light  yer  pipe 

Now  you  look  comfortable  —  so 

You're   rough  —  old   Tom  —  I   know  — 

Black  as  a  crow  ! 

But  I'm  fond  on  yer  lad 

As  any  fool  could  see  ! 

An'  whether  we're  good  or  bad 

You've  bin  maain  good  ter  me. 

But  —  blast  'er  silly  eyes! 
What  yer  say  to  'er,  then  ? 

I  said  a  lot ! 
I   telled  'er   what ! 
A-comin'   'ere  wi'   'er   fancy   airs, 
'Er  what's  never  known  no  cares, 
Lookin'   that   wise  — 
Just   coz   she   catched   a   Parson ! 
(An'  noa  great  shaakes  ayther  — 
She'd  nowt  of  a  feyther 
While   'er  half-brother   run   away  to   sea 
An'   took   to   blue   water 
Wi'  their  ole  cook's  daughter) 
"You  talk  of  'sin'  an'  'shame,'"  I  sez,  "to  me? 
You  talks  just  like  a  fool 
72 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

f)r  a  silly  bairn  at   school 

Coz   nobody   about   could  doubt, 

But    what    we're    happy    together    him    an'    me ; 

Just   look,"   I   sez,   "at   any  in   this   street 

What  couple  can  you  find  about  to  beat 

My  Tom  an'   me  what's  bin   together  years, 

Happy  an'  comfortable; 

Xever    noa    serious    trouble  — 

Xuthin'  I  mean  to  set  us  by  the  ears  — 

Good  reason  why  !  " 

I    sez  —  sez    I  — 

'■  Coz  we're  a  free  an'  equal  pair; 

We  got  to  treat  each  other  fair 

Or  else  we  part."' 

Well  said  now.  Missus  !     That  were  smart ! 

"  To   part !  "   sez   she,    "  lookin'    all   down   her   noaz. 

"  Ow  could  you  leave  your  hoam  wi'  childer  three? 

I   sez  —  sez    I  — "  that   dudn't   bother   mc 

Coz   I   can   earn   enough    for    food    an'   cloaz. 

I  can  maintain  'em  by  mysen,"   sez   I, 

"  An'  would  at  any   time  o'   day. 

I'm  not  a  slave  —  an'  anyway 

I'd  manage  if  I   'ed  to  do, 

I'm  not  a  slave,"  I  sez,  "like  you!" 

You  didn't  —  Come  !  — 

I   did  — I   did!  — 

I   meant   it  too. 

"  H  your  man   turns  up   stunt."   sez   I. 

73 


THE  BOOK  OF 

"  Vou  can't  goa  oft,  or  let  him  Hy ; 

You  can't  maintain  yoursen  —  not  you  !  — 

Lettin'  aloan  the  bairns,  you  ain't ! 

(That  made  her  squirm  all  down  her  back !) 

'Ow  could  you  wok  up  on  a  stack? 

Or  yok  a  boss  or  bake  or  wesh? 

If  your  man  drinks  or  starts  to  thresh 

"S'ou  couldn't  leave  him  coz  he  holds  yer : 

You're  tied  by  laws  and  friends  what  scolds  yer: 

Ver  ain't  like  me.  as   free  as  air. 

I'm    not    afraid    whoever    stare. 

Xayther   is  Tom  ! 

We  minds  oursens 

An'  thinks  noa  more  of  foaks  than  hens, 

Coz  if   I   doant   behave   mysen  — 

Or  him  — 

We  j)arts  !  " — 

Why  doant   wc? 

Why? 

Becoz  we're  free  an"  happy  here, 

Becoz  we  treats  each  other  fair !  " 

You  give  'er  the  rough  of  yer  tongue,  old  gel. 
But  —  what   a   sell ! 

Comin'  'ere  to  ride   rough  shod 
Coz    she's   a   ''  wife." 
W^hy  —  bless  my   life 
She  doesn't  know  she's  born ; 
She  couldn't  find  her  own  corn  ! 
I  sent  'er  off  wi'  a  flea  in  er  ear ! 
An   will    again   if   she   dost   come   near! 
74 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

But  she  weant ! 

The  white  faced  critter  — 

\Vi  a  noaz  Hke  a  knife 

An'  a  smile  that  bitter 

As  if  she  would  kill. 

A  wife ! 

What  does  she  know  of  life?  — 

Xowt ! 

Nor  ever  will !  — 

But  tomorrer's   Sunday 

An'  we'll  go  to  Church! 

What  ? 

Yes!     Just  for  once;  an'  sit  together, 
Like  birds  of   a   feather! 
V\^e  ain't  ashamed  to  show  our  faces 
To  them  what  thinks  we  be  disgraces. 
We'll   goa   together   Tom  —  for   sure 
We'll  goa  this  once  an'  then  noa  more  — 
If   you    be    willin'? 

Aye,  lass — I'm  willin" — 

I'll  back  you  up  as  I've  allcrs  done, 

Agen  Parson's  wife  or  anyone. 

Aye;  agen  all  the  country  round, 

Coz  you're  as  good  as  could  be   found  — 

An'  now  —  old  gel  —  it's  oniost  eight, 

Come  on  ycr  know  we  moant  be  late. 

Off  to  the  Ship  for  our  glass  of  aale; 

This  yarn  of  yourn'll  make  a  taale ! 

What's  that  —  ycr  bunnct  ? 


75 


THE  ROOK  OF 

All  rate  .  .  .  be  quick  — 

I'll  wait  for  yer  agen  the  gate. 

Bernard   Gilbert 


5-/  Marriage  Song 


COME  up,   dear   chosen  morning,   come, 
Blessing  the  air  with  light. 
And  bid  the  sky  repent  of  being  dark: 
Let  all  the  spaces  round  the  world  be  white, 
And  give  the  earth  her  green  again. 
Into  new  hours  of  beautiful  delight. 
Out  of  the  shadow  where  she  has  lain. 
Bring  the  earth  awake  for  glee. 
Shining  with   dews  as  fresh  and  clear 
As  my  beloved's  voice  upon  the  air. 
For  now,  O  morning  chosen  of  all  days,  on  thee 
A  wondrous  duty  lies : 

There    was    an    evening    that    did    loveliness    foretell, 
Thence  upon  thee,  O  chosen  morn,  it  fell 
To    fashion   into   perfect    destiny 
The    radiant   prophecy. 

For  in  an  evening  of  young  moon,  that  went 
Filling  the  moist  air  with  a  rosy  fire, 
I   and   my  beloved  knew   our   love ; 
And  knew  that  thou,  O  tnorning,  wouldst  arise 
To  give   us   knowledge   of  achieved  desire. 
For,   standing   stricken   with    astonishment, 
Half   terrified   with   delight, 
76 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Even  as  the  moon  did  into  clear  air  move 

And   made   a   golden    light. 

Lo  there,  croucht  up  against   it,  a  dark  hill, 

A  monstrous  back  of  earth,  a  spine 

Of  hunched  rock,  furred  with  great  growth  of  pine, 

Lay  like  a  beast,  snout   in   its  paws,  asleej); 

"S'et  in  its  sleeping  seemed  it  miserable. 

As  though  strong  fear  must  always  keep 

Hold  of  its  heart,  and  drive  its  blood  in   dream. 

^'ea,  for  to  our  new  love,  did  it  not  seem. 

That  dark  and  quiet  length  of  hill. 

The  sleeping  grief  of  the  world?  —  Out  of  it  we 

Had  like  imaginations  stept  to  be 

I'.eauty  and  golden  wonder;  and  for  the  lovely  fear 

Of  coming  perfect  joy,  had  changed 

'i'he  terror  that  dreamt  there ! 

And  now  tlic  golden  moou  had  turncil 

To  shining  white,  white  as  our  souls  that  burned 

With   vision   of  our  *i)rophecy   assured: 

Suddenly  white  was  the  moon ;  but  she 

At  once  did  on  a  woven  modesty 

Of  cloud,  and   soon   went   in   obhCnred: 

.\nd  we  were  dark,  and  vanisht  that  strange  hill. 

Hut  yet   it   was  not   long  before 

There  opened  in  the  sky  a  narrow  door. 

Made  with  pearl  lintel  and  ])earl  sill ; 

And  the  earth's  night   sec'd  pressing  there, — 

All  as  a  beggar  on  some   festival   woidd  i)eer, — 

To  gaze  into  a   room   of  light   beyond, 
The  hidden    silver    splendour   (jf   llu-    moon. 

^'ca.  and  we  also,  we 

Long  gazed  wistfully 

77 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Towards  thee,   O  morning,  come  at  last, 

And  towards  the  light  that  thou  wilt  pour  upon  us  soon  ! 


O  soul  who  still  art  strange  to  sense, 
AVho  often  against  beauty  wouldst  complain, 
Doubting  between  joy  and  pain: 
If  like  the  startling  touch  of  something  keen 
Against  thee,   it  hath   been 
To  follow  from  an  upland  height 
The  swift   sun  hunting  rain 
Across  the  April  meadows  of  a  plain, 
Until  the  fields  would  flash  into  the  air 
Their  joyous  green,  like  emeralds  alight, 
Or  when  in  the  blue  of  night's  mid-noon 
The   burning  naked  moon 
Draws  to  a  brink  of  cloudy  weather  near. 
A  breadth  of  snow,  firm  and  soft  as  a  wing, 
Stretcht   out   over  a   wind  that   gently  goes, — 
Through  the  white  sleep  of  snowy  cloud  there  grows 
An   azure-border'd  shining  ring, 

The  gleaming  dream  of  the  approaching  joy  of  her;  — 
What  now  wilt  thou  do.  Soul  ?     What  now. 
If  with  such  things  as  these  troubled  thou  wert  ? 
How  wilt  thou  now  endure,  or  how 
Xot  now  be  strangely  hurt?  — 
When  utter  beauty  must  come  closer  to  thee 
Than  even  anger  or  fear  could  be ; 
When  thou,  like  metal  in  a  kiln,  must  lie 
Seized  by  beauty's  mightily  able  flame ; 
Enjoyed  by  beauty  as  by  the  ruthless  glee 
78 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Of   an   unescapable   power; 

Obeying  beauty  as  air  obeys  a  cry ; 

Yea,  one  thing  made  of  beauty  and  thee, 

As  steel  and  a  white  heat  are  made  the  same ! 

—  Ah,  but  I  know  how  this  infirmity 

Will  fail  and  be  not,  no,  not  memory, 

When  I  begin  the  marvellous  hour. 

This  only  is  my  heart's  strain'd  eagerness, 

Long  waiting   for  its  bliss. — 

But  from  those  other  fears,   from  those 

That  keep  to  Love  .so  close, 

From   fears   that   arc   the   shadow   of  delight, 

Hide  me,  O  joys;  make  them  unknown  to  night! 


Thou  bright   God  that   in   dream   camcst   to  mc  last 
night, 
Thou  with  the  flesh  made  of  a  golden  light, 
Knew  I  not  thee,  thee  and  thy  heart. 
Knew  I  not  well,  Ciod,  who  thou  wcrt? 
Yea,  and  my  soul  divinely  understood 
The  light  what  was  beneath  thee  a  ground, 
The  g(;ldcn  light  that  cover'd  tluc  round. 
Turnin^j  my  sleep  to  a  fiery  morn, 
Was  as  a  heavenly  oath   there  sworn 
Promising  me  an  innnortal  good: 
Well    I    knew    ihee.    (iod    of    Marriages,    thee    and    thy 

flame  ! 
Ah,  Init  wherefore  beside  thee  came 
That  fearful  sight  of  another  mood? 
Why  in   thy  light,  to  thy  h.ind  chained, 

79 


THE  L'.OOK  OF 

Towards  mc  its  bondage  terribly  strained, 

Why  came   with  thee  that  dreadful   hound, 

The   wild  hound   I-'ear,   black,   ravenous  and  gaunt? 

Why  him  with  thee  should  thy  dear  light  surround? 

Why   broughtest   thou   that   I>east   to   haunt 

The  blissful    footsteps  of  my  golden   dream?  — 

Ail  shadowy  black  the  body  dread. 

All  frenzied  tire  the  head. — 

The  hunger  of  its  mouth  a  hollow  crimson  tlame. 

The  hatred  in  its  eyes  ablaze 
Fierce  and  green,  stabl)ing  the  ruddy  glaze. 
And  sharp  white  jetting  fire  the  teeth   snarl'd  at   me, 
And  white  the  dribbling  rage  of  froth, — 
A  throat  that  gaped  to  bay  and  paws  working  violently. 
Yet  soundless  all  as  a  winging  moth : 
Tugging  towards  me,   famishing  for  my  heart;  — 
Even  while  thou,  O  golden  god,  were  still 
Looking  the  beautiful  kindness  of  thy  will 
Into  my   soul,   even   then   must   I   be, 
With  thy  bright  promise  looking  at  me. 
Then  bitterly  of  that  hound  afraid?  — 
Darkness,  I  know,  attendeth  bright, 
And  light  comes  not  but  shadow  comes; 
And  heart  must  know,'  if  it  know  thy  light, 
Thy  wild  hound  l""car,  the  shadow  of  love's  delight. 
Yea,  is  it  thus?     Are  we  so  made 
Of  death   and  darkness,   that   even   thou, 
O  golden  (iod  of  the  joys  of  love. 
Thy  mind  to  us  canst  only  prove, 

The    glorious    devices    of    thy    mind, 
r,y  so  revealing  how  thy  journeying  here 
'I'hrough  this  mortality,  doth  closely  bind 
Ho 


MODERX  BRITISH  VERSE 

Thy   brightness   to   the    shadow   of   dreadful    Fear? 
Ah  no,  it  shall  not  be  !     Thy  joyous  light 
Shall  hide  me  from  the  hunger  of  fear  to-night. 


IV 

For  wonderfully  to  live  I  now  begin: 

So  that  the  darkness  which  accompanies 

Our  being  here,  is  fasten'd  up  within 

The  power  of  light  that  holdeth  me; 

And  from  these  shining  chains,  to  see 

My  joy  with  bold  misliking  eyes. 

The    shrouded    figure    will    not    dare    arise. 

For  henceforth,    from  to-night. 

I  am  wholly  gone  into  the  bright 

Safety  of  the  beauty  of  love: 

Not  only  all  my  waking  vigours  plied 

Under  the  searching  glory  of  love. 

But  knowing  myself  with  love  all  satisiied 

Even  when  my  life  is  hidden  in  sleep; 

As  high  clouds,  to  themselves  that  keep 

The  moon's  white  company,  arc  all  possest 

Silvcrly    with    the    ])resence    of    their    guest; 

Or   as   a   darken'd    room 

That  hath  within  it  roses,  whence  the  air 

And   quietness   are   taken    everywhere 

Deliciously  by  sweet  perfume. 

LdscrlUs  Abcfcromhic 


81 


THE  BOOK  OF 


35  The  Affinity 

I    HAVE  to  thank  God  I'm  a  woman, 
For  in  these  ordered  days  a  woman  only 
Is  free  to  be  very  hungry,  very  lonely. 

It  is  sad  for  Feminism,  but  still  clear 

That  man,  more  often  than  woman,  is  a  pioneer. 

If  I  would  confide  a  new  thought. 

First  to  a  man  must  it  be  brought. 

Now,  for  our  sins,  it  is  my  bitter  fate 
That  such  a  man  wills  soon  to  be  my  mate, 
And  so  of  friendship  is  quick  end: 
W'hen  I  have  gained  a  love  I  lose  a  friend. 

It  is  well  within  the  order  of  things 
That  man  should  listen  when  his  mate  sings 
But  the  true  male  never  yet  walked 
Who  liked  to  listen  when  his  mate  talked. 

I  would  be  married  to  a  full  man. 
As  would  all  women  since  the  world  began ; 
But  from  a  wealth  of  living  I  have  proved 
I  must  be  silent,  if  I  would  be  loved. 

Now  of  my  silence  I  have  much  wealth, 

I  have  to  do  my  thinking  all  by  stealth. 

My  thought  may  never  see  the  day ; 

My  mind  is  like  a  catacomb  where  early  Christians 

pray. 
82 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

And  of  my  silence  I  have  much  pain, 
But  of  these  pangs  I  have  great  gain; 
For  I  must  take  to  drugs  or  drink, 
Or  I  must  write  the  things  I  think. 

If  my  sex  would  let  me  speak, 

I  would  be  very  lazy  and  most  weak ; 

I  should  speak  only,  and  the  things  I  spoke 

Would  fill  the  air  a  while,  and  clear  like  smoke. 

The  things  I  think  now  I  write  down 

And  some  day  I  will  show  them  to  the  town. 

When  I  am  sad  I  make  thought  clear ; 

I  can  re-read  it  all  next  year. 

I  have  to  thank  God  I'm  a  woman 

For  in  these  ordered  days  a  woman  only 

Is  free  to  be  very  hungry,  very  lonely. 

Anna  IVickluvn 


f,6  The  Ballad  of  Camden  Toivn 

IWAI.KI'JJ    uilli    M aisle    long   years    back 
The    streets    of    Camden    Town, 
J    splendid   in    my   suit   of   black, 
And    she   divine    in    brown. 

Hers  was  a  i)roud  and  noble   face 

A  secret  heart  and  eyes 
Like  water  in  a  lonely  place 

Beneath  unclouded  skies, 

83 


THE  BOOK  OF 

A  bed,  a  chest,  a  faded  mat. 

And  broken  chairs  a   few. 
Were  all  we  had  to  grace  our  flat 

In  Hazel  Avenue. 

But  I  could  walk  to  Hamjjstead  Heath, 
And  crown  her  head  with  daisies. 

And  watch  the  streaming  world  beneath, 
And  men  with  other  Maisies. 

When  I  was  ill*  and  she  was  pale 

And  empty  stood  our  store. 
She  left  the  latch  key  on  its  nail, 

And  saw  me  nevermore. 

Perhaps  she  cast  herself  away 
Lest  both  of  us  should  drown: 

Perhaps  she  feared  to  die,  as  they 
Who  die  in  Camden  Town. 

What  'came  of  her?  The  bitter  nights 
Destroy  the  rose  and  lily.  » 

And  souls  are  lost  among  the  lights 
Of  painted  Piccadilly. 

What  'came  of  her?     The  river  flows 
So  deep  and  wide  and  stilly, 

And  waits  to  catcli  the  fallen  rose 
And  clasp  the  l)roken  lily. 

I  dream  she  dwells  in  London  still 

And  breathes  the  evening  air, 
84 


MODERN'   BRlTJSli  VERSE 

And  often  walk  to  Primrose  Hill. 
And  hope  to  meet  her  there. 

Once  more  together  we  will  live, 

For  I  will  find  her  yet : 
I  have  so  little  to  forgive ; 

So  much  I  can't  forget. 

James  Elro\<  Flecker 


57 


Eve 

EVE.   with   her  basket,   was 
Deep  in  the  bells  and  grass. 
Wading  in  bells  and  grass 
Up  to  her  knees. 
Picking  a  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 
Down  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Under  the  trees. 

Mute  as  a  mouse  in  a 
Corner  the  cobra  lay, 
Curled  round  a  bough  of  the 
Cinnamon  tall  .  .  . 
Now  to  get  even  and 
Humble   i)roud   heaven   runl 
Now  was  the  nionienl  dv 
Xevcr  at  all 

"  V.\'i\.  I  "     I'^ach   syllable 
Light  as  a   flower   fell, 


S.S 


THE  BOOK  OF 

"  Eva  !  ■'  he  whispered  the 
Wondering  maid, 
Soft  as  a  bubble  sung 
Out  of  a  linnet's  lung, 
Soft  and  most  silverly 
"  Eva  !  "  he  said. 

Picture  that  orchard  sprite, 
Eve,  with  her  body  white, 
Supple  and  smooth  to  her 
Slim  finger  tips. 
Wondering,  listening. 
Listening,  wondering, 
Eve  with   a   berry 
Half-way  to  her  lips. 

Oh  had  our  simple  Eve 
Seen  through  the  make-believe  ! 
Had  she  but  known  the 
Pretender  he   was ! 
Out  of  the  boughs  he  came, 
Whispering  still  her  name, 
Tumbling  in  twenty  rings 
Into  the  grass. 

Here  was  the  strangest  pair 
In  the  world  anywhere. 
Eve  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Kneeling,  and  he 
Telling  his  story  low.  .  .  . 
Singing  birds  saw  them  go 


86 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Down  the  dark  path  to 
The  Blasphemous  Tree. 

Oh  what  a  clatter  when 
Titmouse  and  Jenny  Wren 
Saw  him  successful  and 
Taking  his  leave ! 
How  the  birds  rated  him, 
How  they  all  hated  him  ! 
How  they  all  pitied 
Poor  motherless  Eve ! 

Picture  her  crying 
Outside  in  the  lane, 
Eve,  with  no  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 
Haunting  the  gate  of  the 
Orchard  in  vain  .  .  . 
Picture  the  lewd  delight 
Under  the  hill  to-night  — 
"  Eva !  "  the  toast  goes  round, 
"  Eva  !  "  again. 

Ralph  Hodgson 


58  Balkis 

BALKI.S  was  in  her  marble  town, 
Anrl  shadow  over  the  world  came  down. 
Whiteness  of  walls,  towers  and  piers. 
That  all  day  dazzled  eyes  to  tears, 
Turned  from  being  white-golden  flame, 

87 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And   like   the  deep   sea   blue  became. 

Balkis   into  her  garden   went ; 

Her  spirit  was  in  discontent 

Like  a  torch  in   restless  air. 

Joylessly  she  wandered  there. 

And  saw  her  city's  azure  white 

Lying  under  the  great  night, 

Beautiful  as  the  memory 

Of  a  worshipping  world  would   be 

In  the  mind  of  a  god,  in  the  hour 

When  he  must  kill  his  outward  power; 

And,  coming  to  a  pool  where  trees 

Grew  in  double  greeneries. 

Saw  herself,   as   she   went   by 

The  water,  walking  beautifully. 

And   saw   the   stars   shine   in   the   glance 

Of  her  eyes,   and  her  own   fair   countenance 

Passing,  pale  and  wonderful, 

Across  the  night  that  filled  the  pool. 

And  cruel  was  the  grief  that  played 

With  the  queen's  spirit;  and  she  said: 

"What  do  I  hear,  reigning  alone? 

For  to  be  unloved  is  to  be  alone. 

There  is  no  man  in   all  my  land 

Dare  my  longing  understand : 

The  whole  folk  like  a  peasant  bows 

Lest  its  look  should  meet  my  brows 

And  be  harmed  by  this  beauty  of  mine. 

I  burn  their  brains  as  I  were  sign 

Of  God's  beautiful  anger  sent 

To   master  them   with   punishment 

Of  beauty  that  must  pour  distress 

88 


MODERN  BRITISH  \'ERSE 

On  hearts  grown  dark  with  ugliness. 
But  it  is  I  am  the  punisht  one. 
Is  there  no  man,  is  there  none. 
In  whom  my  beauty  will  but  move 
The  lust  of  a  delighted  love; 
In  whom  some  spirit  of  God  so  thrives 
That  we  may  wed  our  lonely  lives? 
Is  there  no  man,  is  there  none? 
She  said,  '"  I  will  go  to  Solomon." 

Lasccllcs  Ahcrcrombic 


^g  Lancelot  and  Guincrcve 

SIR  L.XNCELOT  beside  the  mere 
Rode  at  the  golden  close  of  day, 
And  the  sad  eyes  of  Guinevere 

Went  with  him.  with  him.  all  the  way. 

The  golden  light  to  silver  turned, 
The  mist  came  up  out  of  the  mere, 

And  steadily  before  him  burned 
The  sombre  gaze  of  Guinevere 

A  dreadful  chill  about  him  crept. 
The  pleasant  air  to  winter  turned; 

Like  the  wan  eyes  of  one  that  wept ; 

Far  through  the  mist  the  faint  stars  burned. 

All  that  had  sinned  in  days  gone  by 

Like  pale  companions  round  bini  crcjjt  — 

«0 


THE  BOOK  OF 

All  that  beneath  the  morning  sky 

Had  called  the  night  to  mind  and  wept. 

But  strangest  showed  his  own  offence 

Of  all  the  shadows  creeping  by; 
The  star  of  his  magnificence 

Fell  from  its  station  in  the  sky.. 

The  lean  wind  robbed  him  of  his  pride; 

Keen  grew  the  sting  of  his  offence; 
And  like  a  lamp  within  him  died 

The  flame  of  his  magnificence. 

The  drifting  phantoms  of  the  mere 
Were  death  to  pleasure  and  to  pride; 

The  joy  he  had  of  Guinevere 
Faded  into  the  dark  and  died. 

Oh  loss  of  hope  with   loss  of  day 
In  mist  and  shadow  of  the  mere !  — 

Where  with  him,  with  him,  all  the  way. 
Went  the  sad  eyes  of  Guinevere. 

Gerald  Gould 


do  A  Ballad  of  Doom 

iij     A  DIES,  pretty  ladies, 
A-/       What  do  you  lack? 

Ladies,  pretty  ladies. 
Choose  from  my  pack. 
90 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

All  the  way  to  Heaven  and  all  the  way  to  Hell 
I   went  to   fetch  the   fairings  I   have  to  sell." 

"If  j-ou've  been  to  Heaven,  if  you've  been  to  Hell, 

I  will  i)ay  a  pretty  price  for  a  thing  that  you  can  tell  — 

How  does  my  true  love  and  how  fares  the  foe 

Who  slew  him  on  a  winter's  night,  very  long  ago?  " 

■  I  went  the  road  to  Heaven  —  it  is  a  weary  way  — 

I  passed  the  open  gate  of  Hell  —  you  may  reach  it  in 

a  day 
Of  all  the  many  folk  I  saw,  how  shoulfl  I  know 
Which  was  your  true  love  and  which  was  your  f  oe  ?  " 

■■  My  love  he  is  a  gallant,  blue-eyed  and  debonair  " — 
"  A  thousand  thousand  such  as  he  you  may  meet  wiili 

anywhere  " — 
"He  bears  upon  his  breast  the  marks  of  wounds  and 

kisses  seven." 
"  I    saw    not    any    man    like    this    in    all    the    courts    of 

I  leaven." 


My    foe    he  is    a    dour    man    and'  his    hand    is    l)ittcn 

through  — 
.■\   little  sign   of  Invc    1    gave    for  the  <iiTd   he   dared  to 

do  "— 
"Lady,  pretty  lady,  'tis  otiur  news  you  lack." 
'  This  fairing  only,  pedlar,  will   1   li.i\e   from  out  your 

pack." 


9« 


THE  BOOK  OF 

"  O  lady,  there  in  1  leaven  I  saw  the  blessed  stand 
A-praising  God,  and  one  there  was  who  had  a  bitten 

hand ; 
And  one  among  the  damned  I  saw,  who  knew  not  any 

rest, 
Marks  of  wounds  and  kisses  seven  were  burning  on  his 

breast." 

"  Go,  go  again,  good  pedlar,  and  bring  me  word  again 
Why  he  I  hate  is  doomed  to  bliss  and  he  I  love  to  pain. 
Go,  cry  my  name  in  Heaven,  in  Hell  my  name  declare, 
That  I  may  know  before  I  go  what  was  answered 
there." 

"  Lady,  pretty  lady, 

What  do  you  lack? 
Lady,  pretty  lady. 

Choose  from  my  pack. 
I've  beeii  again  to  Heaven,  Lve  been  again  to  Hell, 
Here  are  news  that  you  may  choose  from  those  I  have 
to  sell."' 

"O  what  said  my  lover  and  what  said  my  foe? 
Tell  me,  trusty  j^edlar,  that  I  may  know. 
I'll  take  the  road  to  Heaven  or  go  my  way  to  Hell, 
Give  me  news  that   I  may  choose  and  I   will  pay  you 
well." 

"  I  cried  your  name  before  the  damned,  and  he  who 

was  your   friend  — 
'  A  curse  upon  the   silly   fool  who  brought  me  to  my 

end :  " 
92 


MODERN  BRITISH   \  ERSE 

I  cried  your  name  before  the  saints,  and  he  who  was 

your  foe 
Caught  mc  witli  iiis  bitten  hand  and  would  not  let  me 

go- 

"  He  held  me  lont;  in  my  despite,  conjurin.i^  me  by  ( loil 
.\nd  hope  of  Heaven,  to  come  again  back  by  the  path  I 

trod 
And  sv^ear  your  false-fair  lover  had  been  for  ever  true. 
And  he  your  foe  was  damned  in  Hell   for  the  deed  he 

willed  to  do  !  " 

■■I'll  climlj  the   road  to  lleaxen  and  kiss  the   wounded 

hand 
Of  him  who  is  a  lover  true,  and  he  will  imderstand. 
Then  will  I  take  my  way  to  Hell,  unto  my  lover-foe  — 
l*"alse  or  true  I  love  him.  and  (iod  will  let  me  go." 

■■  Ladies,  pretty  ladies. 

What  do  you  lack  ? 
Ladies,  pretty  ladies. 

Choose  from  my  pack. 
All  the  way  to  Heaven  and  all  the  way  to  Hell 
I    went   to   fetch   these  ])relty    fairings    I    have  to  sell." 

lllhabcth  Rcmiall 

6  I  J) us I 

WHE.X  the  white  flame  in  us  is  gone. 
And   we  that   lost   the   world's  (blight 
Stiffen  in  darkness,  left  alone 

To  cnnnble  in  our  separate  night  ; 

93 


THE  BOOK  OF 

When  your  swift  hair  is  quiet  in  death, 
And  through  the  lips  corruption  thrust 

Has  stilled  the  labor  of  my  breath  — 
When  we  are  dust,  wlien  we  are  dust ! 

Not  dead,  not  undesirous  yet, 
Still  sentient,  still  unsatisfied, 

We'll  ride  the  air,  and  shine,  and  flit, 
Around  the  places  where  we  died, 

And  dance  as  dust  before  the  sun. 
And  light  of  foot,  and  unconfined. 

Hurry  from  road  to  road,  and  run 
About  the  errands  of  the  wind. 

And  every  mote,  on  earth  or  air. 
Will  speed  and  gleam,  down  later  days, 

And  like  a  secret  pilgrim  fare 
By  eager  and  invisible  ways. 

Nor  ever  rest,  nor  ever  lie, 

Till,  beyond  thinking,  out  of  view. 

One  mote  of  all  the  dust  that's  I 
Shall  meet  one  atom  that  was  you. 

Then  in  some  garden  hushed  from  wind, 
Warm  in   a  sunset's  afterglow, 

The  lovers  in  the  flowers  will  find 
A  sweet  and  strange  unquiet  grow 

Upon  the  peace ;  and,  past  desiring 
So  high  a  beauty  in  the  air, 
94 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

And  such  a  light,  and  such  a  quiring, 
And  such  a  radiant  ecstasy  there, 

They'll  know  not  if  it's  fire,  or  dew, 

Or  out  of  earth,  or  in  the  height, 
Singing,  or  flame,  or  scent,  or  hue, 

Or  two  that  pass,  in  light,  to  light. 

Out  of  the  garden  higher,  higher  .  .  . 

But  in  that  instant  they   shall  learn 
The  shattering  ecstasy  of  our  fire, 

And  the  weak  passionless  hearts  will  burn 

And  faint  in  that  amazing  glow. 

Until  the  darkness  close  above; 
And    they    will    know  —  poor    fools,    they'll    know !  - 

One  moment,  what  it  is  to  love. 

Rupert  Brooke 


To  a  Greek  Marble 

Wl  IITE  grave  goddess, 
I'ily   my  sadness. 

0  silence  of   Paros. 

1  am  not  of  these  about  thy  feet, 
These  garments  and  decorum ; 

I  am  thy  brother, 

The  lover  of  aforetime  crying  to  thee. 

And  thrm  bcarcsl  nu-  not. 

95 


'Pin-.  p.ooK  oi- 

I  have  whispered  thee  in  thy  solitudes 

Of  our  loves  in  Phrygia, 

The  far  ecstasy  of  burning  noons 

When  the  fragile  pipes 

Ceased  in  the  cypress  shade. 

And  the  brown  fingers  of  the  shepherd 

Moved  over  slim  shoulders : 

And  only  the   cicada   sang. 

T  have  told  thee  of  the  hills 

And  the  lisp  of  reeds 

And  the  sun  upon  thy  breasts, 

And  thou  hearest  me  not. 
Thou  hearest  me  not. 

Richard  Aldington 


6^  Epilogue 

WHAT  shall  we  do  for  Love  these  days? 
How  shall  we  make  an  altar-blaze 
To  smite   the   horny   eyes   of   men 
With  the  renown  of  our  Heaven, 
And  to  the  unbelievers  prove 
Our  service  to  our  dear  god.  Love? 
W^hat  torches  shall  we  lift  above 
The  crowd  that  pushes  through  the  mire, 
To  amaze  the  dark  heads   with   strange  fire? 
I  should  think  I  were  much  to  blame, 
li  never   I   held   some   fragrant   flame 
Above  the   noises  of  the   world, 
96 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

And   openly    'mid   men's   hurrying   stares, 

Wor-shipt  before  the  sacred  fires 

That  are   like  flashing  curtains   furl'd 

Across  the  presence  of  our  lord  Love. 

Nay,  would  that  I  could  fill  the  gaze 

Of  the  whole  earth  with  some  great  praise 

Made  in  a  marvel  for  men's  eyes, 

Some  tower  of  glittering  masonries, 

Therein  such  a  spirit  flourishing 

Men  should  sec  what  my  heart  can  sing: 

All  that  Love  hath  done  to  me 

Built  into  stone,  a  visible  glee ; 

Marble  carried  to  gleaming  height 

As  moved  aloft  by  inward  delight; 

Not  as  with  toil  of  chisels  hewn. 

But  seeming  poised  in  a  mighty  tune. 

For  of  all  those  who  have  been  known 

To  lodge  with  our  kind  host,  the  sun. 

I  envy  one  for  just  one  thing: 

In  Cordova  of  the  Moors 

There  dwelt  a  passion-minded  King. 

Who  set  great  bands  of  marble-hewers 

To  fashion  his  heart's  thanksgiving 

In   a  tall   palace,   shapen   so 

All  the  wondering  world  might  know 

The  joy  he  had  of  his  Moorish  la.ss. 

His  love,  that  brighter  and  larger  was 

Than  the  starry  places,  into  firm  stone 

He  sent,  as  if  the  stone  were  glass 

Fired  and  into  beauty  bhnvn. 

Solemn  and  invented  gravely 
In  its  bulk  the  fabric  stood, 

97 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Even  as  Love,  that  trusteth  bravely 

In  its  own  exceeding  good 

To  be  better  than  the  waste 

Of  time's  devices;  grandly  spaced 

Seriously  the  fabric  stood. 

But  over  it  all  a  pleasure  went 

Of  carven  delicate  ornament, 

Wreathing  up  like  ravishment. 

Mentioning  in  sculptures  twined 

The  blitheness  Love  hath  in  his  mind; 

And  like  delighted  senses  were 

The  windows,  and  the  columns  there 

Made  the  following  sight  to  ache 

As  the  heart  that  did  them  make, 

Well  I  can  see  that  shining  song 

Flowering  there,  the  upward  throng 

Of  porches,  pillars  and  windowed  walls, 

Spires  like  piercing  panpipe  calls. 

Up  to  the  roof's  snow-cloud  flight; 

All  glancing  in  the  Spanish  light 

White  as  water  of  arctic  tides, 

Save   an   amber   dazzle   on    sunny   sides. 

You  had  said,  the  radiant  sheen 

Of  that  palace  might  have  been 

A  young  god's  fantasy,  ere  he  came 

His  serious  worlds  and  suns  to  frame ; 

Such  an   immortal  passion 

Quiver'd  among  the  slim  hewn  stone. 

And  in  the  nights  it  seemed  a  jar 

Cut  in  the  substance  of  a  star, 

Wherein  a  wine,  that  will  be  poured 

Some  time  for  feasting  Heaven,   was  stored. 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

But  witliin  this  fretted  shell, 
The  wonder  of  Love  made  visible, 
The  King  a  private  gentle  mood 
There  placed,  of  pleasant  quietude. 
For  right  amidst  there  was  a  court. 
Where  always  musked  silences 
Listened  to  water  and  to  trees ; 
And  herbage,  of  all  fragrant  sort, — 
Lavender,  lad's-love,  rosemary, 
Basil,   tansy,   centaury, — 
Was  the  grass  of  that  orchard,  hid 
Love's  amazements  all  amid. 
Tarring  the  air  with  rumour  cool, 
Small   fountains  played  into  a  pool 
With  sound  as  soft  as  the  barley's  hiss 
When  its  beard  just  sprouting  is : 
Whence  a  young  stream,  that  trod  on  moss 
Prettily   rimpled   the   court   across. 
And  in  the  pool's  clear  idleness. 
Moving  like  dreams  through  happiness. 
Shoals  of  small  bright  fishes  were; 
In  and  out  weed-thickets  bent 
I'crch  and  carp,  and  sauntering  went 
With  mounching  jaws  and  eyes  a-stare ; 
Or  on  a  lotus  leaf  would  crawl, 
.\  brindcd  loach  to  bask  and  sprawl, 
Tasting  the  warm  sun  ere  it  di])t 
Into  the  water;  but  quick  as  fear 
Back  his  shining  brown  head  slijJt 
To  crouch  on  the  gravel  of  his  lair, 
Where  the  cooled  sunbeams  broke  in  wrack. 
Split   shattcr'd  goUl  about  his  back. 


THE  BOOK  OJ' 

So  within  that  green-veiled  air. 
Within  that  white-walled  quiet,  where 
Innocent  water  thought  aloud, — 
Childish  prattle  that  must  make 
The  wise  sunlight  with  laughter  shake 
On  the  leafage  ovcrbowed, — 
Often  the  King  and  his  love-lass. 
Let  the  delicious  hours  pass. 
All  the  outer  world  could  see 
Graved  and  sawn  amazingly 
Their  love's  delighted  riotise, 
Fixt  in  marble  for  all  men's  eyes; 
But  only  these  twain  could  abide 
In  the  cool  peace  that  withinside 
Thrilling   desire   and   passion   dwelt; 
They  only  knew  the  still  meaning  spelt 
By  Love's  flaming  script,  which  is 
God's  word  written  in  ecstasies, 

And  where  is  now  the  palace  gone, 
All  the  magical  skill'd  stone, 
All  the  dreaming  towers  wrought 
By  Love  as  if  no  more  than  thought 
The  unresisting  marble  was? 
How  could  such  a  wonder  pass? 
Ah,  it  was  but  built  in  vain 
Against  the  stupid  horns  of  Rome, 
That   pusht  down   into  the  common  loam 
The  loveliness  that  shone  in  Spain. 
But  we  have  raised  it  up  again  ! 
A  loftier  palace,  fairer  far, 
Is  ours,  and  one  that  fears  no  war. 
Safe  in  marvellous  walls  we  are; 
100 


MODERN*  BRITISH  VERSE 

Wondering  sense  like  builded  fires, 
High  amazement  of  desires, 
Delight   and   certainty   of  love. 
Closing  around,  roofing  above 
Our  unapproacht  and  perfect  hour 
Within  the  splendours  of  love's  power. 

Lascellc's  Abercrombie 


64     The  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand 

At  the  Gate  of  the  Sun,  Bagdad,  in  olden  fimc. 

THE    MERCHANTS    (tOCJCtllCr) 

WAY,  for  we  are  ready  to  a  man 


A^ 


Our   camels   sniff   the    evening    and    are   glad. 
Lead  on.  O  master  of  the  Caravan : 

Lead  on  the  Merchant-Princes  of  Bagdad. 


THE   CHIEF    DRAl'EU 

Have  we  not  Indian  carpets  dark  as  wine. 

'rurl)ans  and  sashes,  gowns  and  bows  and  veils, 
And  Ijroidcries  of  intricate- design. 

,\nd  printed  hangings  in  enormous  bales? 

THE   CHIEF   CROCER 

We  have  rose-candy,  we  have  spikenard, 
Mastic  and   terebinth   ;md  oil   and   spice, 

.And  such  sweet  jams  meticulously  jarred 
.\s  C.od's  own  Prophet  eats  in  Paradise. 

lOI 


THE  BOOK  OF 

THE    PRINCIPAL   JEWS 

And  we  have  manuscripts  in  peacock  styles 
By  AH  of  Damascus ;  we  have  swords 

Engraved  with  storks  and  apes  and  crocodiles, 
And  heavy  beaten  necklaces,  for  Lords. 

THE    MASTER    OF   THE    CARAVAN 

Rut  you  are  nothing  but  a  lot  of  Jews. 

THE    PRINCIPAL    JEWS 

Sir,  even  dogs  have  daylight,  and  we  pay. 

THE    MASTER    OF   THE    CARAVAN 

But  who  are  ye  in  rags  and  rotten  shoes. 
You  dirty-bearded,  blocking  up  the  way? 

THE    PILGRIMS 

We  are  the  Pilgrims,  master ;  we  shall  go 

Always  a  little  further:  it  may  be 
Beyond    that    last    blue    mountain    barred    with    snow. 

Across  that  angry  or  that  glimmering  sea. 

White  on  a  throne  or  guarded  in  a  cave 
There  lives  a  prophet  who  can  understand 

Why  men  were  born  but  surely  we  are  brave, 
Who  make  the  golden  journey  to  Samarkand. 

THE    CHIEF    MERCHANT 

We  gnaw  the  nail  of  hurry.     Master,  away! 

ONE   OF   THE    WO.MEN 

O  turn  your  eyes  to  where  your  children  stand. 
Is  not  Bagdad  the  beautiful?     O  stay! 

102 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

THE    MERCHANTS    (ill    clwrus) 

We  take  the  Golden   Road  to   Samarkand. 

AN    OLD    MAN 

Have  you  not  girls  and  garlands  in  your  homes, 

Eunuchs  and  Syrian  boys  at  your  command? 
Seek  not  excess:  God  hateth  him  who  roams! 

THE    MERCHANTS    (ill    cllOrus) 

We  make  the  golden   journey  to  Samarkand. 

A     I'lI.CRIM    WITH    A    BEAUTIFUL    VOICE 

Sweet  to  ride  forth  at  evening  from  the  wells 
When  shadows  pass  gigantic  on  the  sand, 

And  softly  through  the  silence  beat  the  bells 
Along  the  golden  road  to  Samarkand. 

A    MERCHANT 

We  travel  not  for  trafficking  alone: 

By  hotter  winds  our  fiery  hearts  are  fanned: 

For  lust  of  knowing  what  should  not  be  known 
We  make  the  golden  journey  to  Samarkand. 

THE    M.VSTER    OF    THE    CARAVAN 

Hpen  the  gate,  O  watchman  of  the  night! 

THE    WATCHMAN 

Ho,   travellers,    I   open.     I-'or  what   land 
Leave  you  the  dim-moon  city  of  delight? 

THE    .MERCHANTS    (zvitll    0    sltOllt) 

We  make  the  golden  journey  to  Samarkand. 

(The  Caravan  fyasscs  Ihroiii^li  the  fjatc.) 

103 


THE  BOOK  OF 

THE    WATCHMAN     (cOUSoUlig    tllC    WOmCIl) 

What  would  yc.  ladies?     It  was  ever  thus. 
j\Ien  are  unwise  and  curiously  planned. 

A    WO.MAX 

They  have  their  dreams,  and  do  not  think  of  us. 
VOICES  OF  THE  CARAVAN  ( //;  tlic  iUstaucc,  siugiuy) 

We  make  the  golden  journey  to  Samarkand. 

James  Elrov  Flecker 


6^  Arabia 

FAR  are  the  shades  of  Arabia. 
Where  the  Princes  ride  at  noon, 
'Mid  the   verdurous   vales   and  thickets, 
Under  the  ghost  of  the  moon ; 
And  so  dark  is  that  vaulted  purple 
Flowers  in  the  forest  rise 

And  toss   into  blossom   'gainst   the   phantom  stars 
Pale  in  the  noonday  skies. 

Sweet  is  the  music  of  Arabia    • 
In  my  heart,  when  out  of  dreams 
I  still  in  the  thin  clear  murk  of  dawn 
Descry  her  gliding  streams; 
Hear  her  strange  lutes  on  the  green  banks 
Ring  loud  with  the  grief  and  delight 
Of  the  dim-silked,  dark-haired  musicians 
In  the  brooding  silence  of  night. 
104 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

They  haunt  me  —  her  lutes  and  lier  forests; 

No  beauty  on  earth   I   see 

But  shadowed  with  that  dream  recalls 

Her  loveliness  to  me: 

Still  eyes  look  coldly  upon  me, 

Cold  voices  whisper  and  say  — 

'  He  is  crazed  with  the  spell  of  far  Arabia, 

They  have  stolen  his  wits  away.' 

IValtcr  dc  la   Mare 


66  Babylon 

IF   you    could    bring   her    glories    back ! 
You  gentle  sirs  who  sift  the  dust 
And  burrow  in  the  mould  and  must 
Of  Babylon  for  bric-a-brac; 
Who    catalogue    and    pigeon-hole 
The  faded  splendours  of  her  soul 
And  put  her  greatness  under  glass  — 
If  you  could  bring  her  past  to  pass! 

If  you  could  bring  her  dead  to  life! 
The  soldier  lad;  the  market  wife: 
Madam  buying  fowls  from  her; 
Tip,  the  butcher's  bandy  cur; 
Workmen  carting  bricks  and  clay; 
Babel  passing  to  and  fro 
On  the  business  of  a  day 
Gone  three  thousand  years  ago  — 
That  you  cannot ;  then  be  done, 
Put   the  goblet   down  again, 


^05 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Let  the  broken  arch  remain, 
Leave  the  dead  men's  dust  alone  — 


Is  it  nothing  how  she  Hes, 
This  old  mother  of  you  all, 
You  great   cities  proud   and   tall 
Towering  to  a  hundred  skies 
Round  a  world  she  never  knew, 
Is  it  nothing,  this,  to  you  ? 
Must  the  ghoulish   work  go  on 
Till  her  very  floors  are  gone? 
While  there's  still  a  brick  to  save 
Drive  these  people  from  her  grave  ! 


The  Jewish  seer  when  he  cried 
Woe  to  Babel's  lust  and  pride 
Saw  the  foxes  at  her  gates ; 
Once  again  the  wild  thing  waits. 
Then  leave  her  in  her  last  decay 
A  house  of  owls,  a  foxes'  den ; 
The  desert  that  till  yesterday 
Hid  her  from  the  eyes  of  men 
In  its  proper  time  and  way 
Will  take  her  to  itself  again. 

Ralph  Hodgson 


T06 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


61  Babylon 

I'M  going  softly  all  my  years  in  wisdom  if  in  pain  — 
For,  oh,  the  music  stirs  my  blood  as  once  it  did 
before 
And  still  I  hear  in   Babylon,  in   Babylon,   in   Babylon, 
The  dancing  feet  in  Babylon,  of  those  who  took  my 
floor. 

I'm  going  silent  all  my  years,  but  garnered  in  my  brain 

Is  that  swift  wit  which  used  to  flash  and  cut  them 

like  a  sword 

And  now  I  hear  in   Babylon,  in   Babylon,  in   Babylon, 

The  foolish  tongues  in   Babylon,  of  those  who  took 

my  word. 

I'm  going  lonely  all  my  days,  who  was  the  first  to  crave 

The    second,    fierce,    unsteady    voice,    that    struggled 

to  speak    free  — 

And  now  I  watch  in  Babylon,  in  Babylon,  in  Babylon, 

The  pallid  loves  in  Babylon  of  men  who  once  loved 

me. 

I'm  sleeping  early  by  a  flame  as  one  content  and  gray, 
But,  oh,  I  dream  a  dream  of  dreams  beneath  a  winter 
moon, 
I  breathe  the  breath  of  Babylon,  of  Babylon,  of  Baby- 
lon, 
The  scent  of  silks  in  Babylon  that  floated  lo  a  tune. 

107 


THE  BOOK  OF 

A  band  of  years  has  flogged  me  out  —  an  exile's  fate 
is  mine, 
To  sit  with  mumbling  crones  and  still  a  heart  that 
cries  with  youth. 
But,  oh,  to  walk  in   Babylon,  in   Babylon,  in  Babylon, 
The  happy  streets  in  Babylon,  when  once  the  dream 
was  truth. 

Viola    Taylor 


68  The  Bough  of  Nonsense 

AN    IDYLL 

BACK    from    the    Somme   two    Fusiliers 
Limped  painfully  home;  the  elder  said, 
5".     "  Robert,  Fve  lived  three  thousand  years 
This    Summer,    and    Fm    nine    parts    dead." 
R.     "  But  if  that's  truly  so,"  I  cried.  "  quick,  now, 
Through  these  great  oaks  and  see  the   famous  bough 

"  Where  once  a  nonsense  built  her  nest 

With   skulls   and   flowers   and   all   things   queer. 

In  an  old  boot,  with  patient  breast 

Hatching  three  eggs;  and  the  next  year.  .  .  ." 

5".     "  Foaled  thirteen  squamous  young  beneath,  and  rid 

Wales  of  drink,  melancholy,   and   psalms,   she   did." 

Said  he,  "  Before  this  quaint  mood  fails, 
We'll  sit  and  weave  a  nonsense  hymn," 
R.     "  Hanging   it    up    with    monkey   tails 
In  a  deep  grove  all  hushed  and  dim  .  .  ." 
io8 


MODERN  BRITISH  \ERSE 

5".     "  To  glurious  yclIow-bunchcd  banana-trees,'' 
R.     "  Planted  in  dreams  by  pious  Portuguese," 

S.     "  Which  men  are  wise  beyond  their  time. 

And  worship  nonsense,   no  one  more." 

R.     "  Hard  l)y,  among  old  quince  and  lime, 

They've  built  a  temple  with  no  floor," 

S.     "  And  whosoever  worships  in  that  place, 

He  disappears    from    sight   and   leaves   no  trace." 

R.     "  Once  the  (Jalatians  built  a  fane 

To   Sense :   what  duller   God  than  that  ? " 

S.     "  liut  the  first  day  of  autumn  rain 

The    roof    fell    in    and    crushed   them    flat." 

R.     Ay,  for  a  roof  of  subtlest  logic  falls 

When    nonsense    is    foundation    for   the    walls." 

I  tell  him.  old  Galatian  tales; 

He    caps    them    in    quick    Portuguese, 

While  i)hantom  creatures  with  green  scales 

Scramble   and   roll   among  the   trees. 

The   hymn   swells:   on   a   bough   above  us   sings 

A  row  of  bright  pink  birds,  flapping  their  wings. 

Robert  Graves 


dp  A  Sonf/  For  Grocers 

HEAV'EX    bless    grocers'    shojjs    wherein 
Raisins  arc  with   tawny   skin, 
Murrey    wine,   and   green   lirpieurs, 
Curious  spice  in  canisters, 

109 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Honest  ham,  and  mother  tea, 

Isinglass   and   carroway, 

Rennet,  vinegar,  and  salt 

That  honour  has,  and  clear  cobalt : 

Coffee,  that  swart  Mussulman, 

Caviar  the  Caspian, 

Suave   oil,   angry   condiments, 

Anchovies,  and  sweet  essence 

Of  clove  and  almond,  honeycomb, 

Jam  our  English  orchards  from, 

Portly  cheeses  full  of  mould. 

Sugars  and  treacles  brown  or  gold; 

Soap,  to  keep  us  pure,  and  white 

Candles,  the  slim  sons  of   light. 

Butter  like  the  flow'r  of  gorse, 

Wheat  meal   fine  and  oat  meal  coarse, 

Soda  for  our  maid's  service. 

Sago,    tapioca,    rice 

An  economic   trinity. 

Bacon,   friend  ham's  affinity. 

Bananas,   which   the   People   please, 

Proletarian  oranges. 

While  of  fruits  in   syrup   a 

Frequent   cornucopia. 

Eggs  fresh  within  and  white  without. 

Cocoa  of  origin  devout. 

Nuts  and  string  and  brooms  and  mops. 

Saveloys  and  lollipops  — 

God,  be  good  to  grocers'  shops ! 

Sherard  Vines 


1 10 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


70      ''  PsiffacJuis  Eois  Imifafrix  ales  ab 
nidis."—Ozi(i 

THE  parrot's  voice  snaps  out  — 
No  good  to  contradict  — 
What  he  says  he'll  say  again : 
Dry  facts,  like  biscuits. 

His  voice  and  vivid  colours 

Of  his  breast   and  wings 

Are  immemorably  old ; 

Old  dowagers  dressed  in  crimped  satin 

Boxed    in    their    rooms 

Like   specimens  beneath   a   glass 

Inviolate  —  and    never   changing, 

Their  memory  of  emotions  dead; 

The  ardour  of  their  summers 

Sprayed  like  camphor 

On  their  silken  parasols 

Intissued  in  a  cupboard. 

"  Psittachus  eois  imitatrix  ales  ab  indis." 

Rettectivc,    l)ut    with    never    a    new    thought 
The  parrot   sways  upon  his   ivory   i)erch  — 
Then  gravely  turns  a  somersault 
Through  rings  nailed  in  the  roof  — 
Much  as  the  sun  performs  his  antics 
As  he  climbs  the  aerial  bridge 

I  I  I 


THE  BOOK  OF 

We  only  see 

Through    crystal    prisms    in    a    falling    rain. 

Sachcvcrcll   Sitwcll 


yr  Fables 

WHO  taught  the  centaur  first  to  drink 
Ladling  his  huge  hands  from  the  brink 
When  other  monsters  lie  and  lap 
The  waters  like  a  fruitful  pap? 

The  same  who  by  ingenious  ways 

Taught  the  chameleon  his  rays 

To  take   from  leaves  of  tow'ring  trees 

Strung  thick  with  dew-bells  that  the  bees 

Set  ringing,  till  they  bring  the  honey. 

Thrilled  with  music,  gold  with   money 

Back  to   their  castles   in   the  clouds  — 

And   the   chameleon,    his   crowds 

Of  foes  to  fight  with,  has  two  eyes 

That    travel    sideways,    no    surprise 

On   any   side.     He   swiftly   sees 

All  —  flowers,  slow  floating  birds  and  bees. 

The   gentle,    loving   unicorn 
Will   never   eat   the   grass  — 
All   bushes   have   too   many   thorns 
Their  leaves  are  made  of  brass, 
His  horn  is  given  him  to  take 
The   soft    fruit    from   the   trees, 
■  Please  gra.sp  my  horn   and   roughly  shake, 

112 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

0  nymph,   among   those   leaves; 

This    pear   transfixed    upon    my   horn; 

1  cannot   reach  " —  beyond  the  brim  ; 
Clutched  at;  she  misses;  it  has  gone  — 
"  Alas  !     You've  got  it !     I  can't  swim." 

To  comb  a  satyr's  silken  beard 
Arabian    travellers    aspire. 
They  beg,  they  bribe ;  more  loved  than  feared 
The   satyr  trots   to  take  his  hire  — 
Fawning,   he   takes    from   outstretched   hand 
Such   fruit  his  eyes  have  sometimes  seen 
On   swaying  branches   where   the   land 
Sighs  in  a  soft  wind  and  the  green 
Leaves  shake  beneath  the  nightingale. 
Thus    cajoled,    they    can    reach    his    beard 
Where  gums  lie,  gathered  from  the  frail 
Flowers   he    feeds   on,    where   no   voice   is   heard. 

SachcvcrcU  Sitwcll 


72 


Check 

Tlir:  night  was  creeping  on  the  ground; 
She  crcjjt  and  did  not  make  a  sound 
I'ntil   she   reached   the   tree,   and   then 
She  covered   it,  and  stole  again 
.Along  the  grass  beside  the  wall. 

1    heard    the    rustle    of   her    .shawl 
As  she  threw  blackness  everywhere 
Upon    the    skv    and    ground    ;iii(l    air, 

"3 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And  in  the  room  where  I  was  hid: 
But  no  matter  what  she  did 
To  everything  that  was  without, 
She  could  not  put  my  candle  out. 

So  I  stared  at  the  night,  and  she 
Stared  back  solemnly  at  me. 

James  Stephens 


7J      Myself  on  flic  Mcrry-Go-Round 

To  Robert  Nichols 

THE  giddy  sun's  kaleidoscope  — 
The  pivot  of  a  switchback  world 
Is  tied  to  it  by  many  a  rope : 
The  people  (flaunting  streamers),  furled 
Metallic  banners  of  the  seas. 
The  giddy  sun's  kaleidoscope 
Casts  colours  on  the  face  of  these : 
Cosmetics  of   Eternity, 
And  powders  faces  blue  as  death ; 
Beneath  the  parasols  we  see 
Gilt    faces    tarnished   by    sea-breath. 
And  crawlijig  like  the  foam,  each  hor.se 
Beside   the   silken   tents  of   sea 
In    whirlpool    circles   takes   his   course. 
Huge  houses,  humped  like  camels,  chase 
The  wooden  horses'  ceaseless  bound ; 
The  throbbing  whirring  sun  that  drags 
The  streets  upon  its  noisy  round 
With  tramways  chasing  them  in  vain, 
114 


MODERN  BRITISH  \ERSE 

Projects  in  coloured  cubes  each   face  — 

Then  shatters  them  upon  our  brain. 

The  house-fronts  hurl  them  back,  they  jar 

Upon   cross-currents  of  the  noise : 

Like  atoms  of  my  soul  they  are. 

They   shake  my   body's   equipoise, — 

A  clothes  line  for  the  Muse  to  fly 

(So  thin  and  jarred  and  angular) 

Her  rags  of  tattered  finery. 

Beneath  the  heat  of  trees'  sharp  hue  — 

A  ceaseless  whirr,  metallic-green. 

Sounds  like  a  gimlet  shrilling  through 

The  mind,  to  reach  the  dazzling  sheen 

Of  meanings  life  can  not  decide: 

Then  words  set  all  awry,  and  you 

Are  left  upon  the  other  side. 

Our  senses,  each  a  wooden  horse, 

We  paint  till  they  appear  to  us 

Like    life,    and    then    (jueer    strangers    course 

In  our  place  on  each  Pegasus. 

The  very  heat  seems  but  to  be 

The   product   of   some   mnn-niadc    force  — 

Steam    from    the    band's    machinery. 

The  heat  is  in  a  thcnisand  rags 

Reverberant  with  sound,  whose  dry 

Frayed  ends  we  never  catch,  seem  tags 

Of  our  unfinished  entity; 

And  like  a   stretched  accordion 

The  houses  throb  with  heat,  and  flags 

Of   smoke   arc   tunes   light    plays   upon. 

The  band's  kaleidoscopic  whirr 

Tears  up  those  jarring  threads  of  heat 

1 1 ; 


THE  BOOK  OF 

The  crowds;  plush  mantles  seem  to  purr  — 
Crustacean  silk  gowns  take  the  beat 
From  houses ;  each  reverberates 
With  this  vitality  and  stir; 
The  giddy  heat  acerberates. 
And  in  the  swirling  restaurant 
Where  liqueurs  at  perpetual  feud 
Dispute  for  sequinel  lights  and  taunt 
Hot  leaves,  our  dusty  souls  exude 
Their  sentiments,  while  scrajjs  of  sense 
Float  inward   from  the  band  and  flaunt  — 
Disturb  the  general  somnolence. 

Edith .  Sitwell 


24  Philosophy 

''T    AST  night  in  the  Baltic  Tavern  tap 

i-V  I  met,"'  Mike  said,  "  a  longshore  chap 
Who  said,  '  Don't  sailorin'  look  queer 
With  all  them  mines  an'  suchlike  gear? 
If  I  was  you,'  'e  says,  says  'e, 
'  I'd  take  a  shore  job  same  as  me. 
An'  leave  this  trouble  that's  around 
For  them  that's   fond   o'  gettin'  drowned.' 

"  '  No,  no,'  I  says,  '  I  ain't  a-givin' 

It  up  for  any  square'cad  livin', 

The  ways  I  put  it  in  my  'ead 

Is  —  no  man's  done  until  'e's  dead, 

An'  if  it  comes  to  dyin',  sure, 

A  man  dies  once,  an'  then  no  more,' 

ii6 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

"I   says,   '  When   ships   'as  left  off  goin', 
An'  grass  on  London  docks  is  growin', 
(The  same's  it  is,  so  I've  'card  say, 
On  all  them  'Amburg  wharves  this  day), 
When  Lloyd's  is  broke  an'  on  their  uppers, 
An'  all  the  owners  in  the  scuppers, 
W  hy,  then,'  I  says.  '  I  might  be  lookin' 
For  a  job  o'  cartin'   coals  or  cookin', 

Or  washin'  pots,  or  sellin'  tapes. 
Or  leadin'  bears,  or  Icarnin'  apes, 
But  since,  as  I  'ear  tell,   so  far 
There's   ships   still   passin'   Mersey  Bar, 
An'  one  or  two  comes  in  each  day 
To   London   Docks,   so   I've   'eard   say, 
An'  ships  can't   sail  without  no  crew, — 
So  long  as  they  sail,  I  sail  too. 

■■"If  you,  young  man,  'ad  follcred  the  sea 

Your  'ole   life   long,  the   same   as  me, 

'Ad  knowed  it  wakin'  an'  asleep. 

An'  seen  God's  wonders  in  the  deep, 

I  guess  you'd  not  be  rattled  much 

By  mines  or  submarines  or  such. 

Or  care  a  bloomin'  finger  snaj) 

For  no  fool  Kaiser  or  such  chap  .  .  . 

■'  ■  Besides.'   I  says.  "  whin  all  is  said. 

Just  think   o'  them  poor  chai)S  that's  dead  — 

Poor   i)als   o'    mine   as   'nd   t<>   die  — 

They  took  their  chances  .  .  .  so  do  1  !  '  " 

Cicely   I'o.v   Sntilli 
"7 


THE  BOOK  OF 


75  Billy's  Yarn 

*'/^0  seen  her  off?"'  .  .  . 

V--/        "  Me,"   says   the   tide, 
■'  I   'ad  to,   for  why,  there  was  no  one  beside : 
For  sailor-folks"  women,  they're  busy"  enough. 
"Thout  'angin"  round  pier-'eds  to  see  their  chaps  off. 
The  gulls  all   about   'er   they   wrangled   an'   cried. 
An"   I   seen    'er   off,"   says   the   Liverpool   tide. 

■■  Oo   waved   'er  good-bye  ?'"... 

"  Me.'"  says  old  Tuskar, 
"  When  the  sun  it  went  down  an"  the  light  is  got  dusker, 
(With  a  sea  gettin'  up  an'  the  wind  blowin'  keen) 
An'   the    smoke   of    "er    funnels   could    'ardly   be    seen, 
An'  the  last  of  the  sunset  was  red  in  the  .sky  .  .  . 
With   the  first   of  my   flashes   I   waved   "er   good-bye." 

"  Oo    seen    'er    sink  ?  "  .  .  . 

"  Me,"'  says  the  sun. 
'■  At  the  top  o"  my  climbin'  I  seen  the  thing  done  .  .  . 
I   seen   'er   'eave   to,   an"   I    seen   "er   'ull   shiver, 
Settle,    an'    stumble,    an'    tremble,    an'    quiver, 
An'  'er  stern  it  went  up,  an"  'er  bow  it  went  down. 
An'  the  most  of  'er  people  they  just  'ad  to  drown. 
An'  I'd  never  a  cloud   for  to  shut  out  the  sight, 
So   I    seen    'er   sink,"   says    the    sun    in    'is   might. 

■'  Oo  seen  the  last  of  'er?  "'  .  .  . 
"  Us,"    says   the   crew. 
All   that   was   left   out   o'   twenty-and-two, 
ii8 


MODERX  BRITISH  \ERSE 

"We    seen    the    last    of    'er  —  floatiii"    round 
On  a  bottom-up  boat  among  dead  uns  and  drow  ned  — 
We   seen   'er   waterways    runnin'   \vith   blood  — 
We  seen  poor  mates  of  ours  shot  where  they  stood  — 
But   them  chaps  as  done  it.   I  tell  you  now  true, 
They  ain't  seen  the  last  of  us  yet,"  says  the  crew, 
'■  Xo,    you    bet    your    sweet    life."    says   what's    left    o' 
the  crew. 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 


76  "  Ships  That  Pass  " 

.hi    Episode   of   the    Cruiser  Patrol 

TWERli  arc  ships  that  i^ass  in  the  night-time,  some 
I)oet  has  told  us  how. 
But  a  ship  that  passed  in  the  day-time  is  the  one  I'm 

thinking  of  now. 
Where   the   seas   roll   green    from   the   Arctic   and   the 

wind   comes   keen    from   the    Pole, 
"rwecii    Rockall    Bank    and    the    Shetlands,    up    North 
on   the   long  j)atrol 

We    sighted    her   one   day    early ;    the    forenoon    watch 

was   begun, 
There  was  mist  like  wool  on  the  water,  and  a  glimpse 

of  a  pale  coUl  sun. 
.And  she  came  through  the  dim  grey  weather  —  a  thing 

of  wonder  and  gleam. 
Frrtm  the  port  o'  the  Past  on   a   I)()wlinc.  close-hauled 

on  a  wind  of  dream. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

The  rust  of  years  was  upon  her  —  she  was  weathered 

by   many   a   gale  — 
The  flag  of  a  Dago  republic  went  tip  to  her  peak  at 

our  hail ; 
But   I   knew   her  —  Lord    (jod !     I   knew   her,   as  liow 

could   I   help  but   know 
The   shij)   that    I   served   my   time   in,   no   matter   how 

long  ago  ! 

Td    have    climbed    to    her    royals    blindfold,    I'd    have 

known  her  spars  in  a  crowd ; 
Aloft   and  alow,   I   knew   her,   brace   and  halliard  and 

shroud  — 
From    the    scroll-work    under    her    stern-ports    to    the 

paint   on   her   figure-head  — 
And  the  shout,  "  All  hands,"  on  her  main  deck  would 

have  tumbled  me  up  from  the  dead. 

She  moved  like  a  queen  on  the  water,  with  the  grace 

that   was   hers   of  yore. 
The  sun  on  her  shining  canvas  —  what  had  she  to  do 

with  war. 
With  a  world  that  is  full  of  trouble  and  seas  that  are 

stained   with   crime  ? 
She  came  like   a  dream   remembered,   dreamt   once  in 

a    happier    time. 

She  was  youth,  and  its  sorrow  that  passes  —  the  light, 
the  laughter,  the  joy, 

The  South,  and  the  small  white  cities,  and  the  care- 
free heart  of  a  boy, 

120 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

The    farewell    rtash    of    the    I'astnet    to   light   you   the 

whole  world  round, 
And  the  hoot  of  the  tug  at  parting  —  and  the   song 

of  the  homeward  bound. 

The   sun,    and   the   flying-fish    weather  —  night,   and   a 

fiddle's  tune  — 
And  i)alms,  and  the  warm  maize-yellow  of  a  low  \\'est 

Indian    moon  — 
Storm  in  the  high  South  latitudes  —  and  the  boom  of 

a   Trade-filled   sail  — 
And  the  anchor  watch  in  the  trojjics,  and  the  old  Sou' 

Spainer's  tale. 

• 

Was  it  the  lap  of  the  wave  I  heard  or  the  chill  wind's 

cry, 
Or   a    snatch    of    a    deep-sea    chantey    I    knew    in    the 

years  gone  by  ? 
Was  it  the  whine  of  the  gear  in  the  sheaves,  or  the 

sea-gulls'  call, 
Or  the  ghost  of  my  shipmates'  voices,  tallying  on  to 

the   fall?"' 


I  went  through  her  papers  duly  —  and  no  one,  I  hope 

could  see 
A   freight   of   the  years   departed    was   the   cargo   she 

bore   for  me  ! 
I    talked    with    her    Uago   captain    while   we    searched 

her   for  contraband, 
Ancl  ...   I    longed    for  one  grip  of   her  wheel-spokes 

like  a  grip  of  a  friend's  right  hand. 

121 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And  I  watched  wliilc  her  helm  went  over,  and  the  sails 

were   sheeted   home, 
And    under    her    moving    forefoot    the    bubbles    broke 

into  foam, 
Till   she   faded   from   sight   in   the   greyness  —  a   thing 

of  wonder   and  gleam. 
For  the  port  of  the  Past  on  a  bowline  —  closehauled 

on   a   wind   of   dream ! 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 


77         .  "  In  Pn/:c  " 

A  SHIP  was  built  in  Glasgow,  and  oh,   she  looked 
a  daisy  — 
(Just  the  way  that  some  ships  do!) 
An'  the  only  thing  against   'er  was   she   alius  steered 
so  crazy 
(An'  it's  true,  my  Johnnie  Bowline,  true!) 

They  sent  'er  out  in  ballast  to  Oregon  for  lumber, 
An'  before  she  dropped  her  pilot  she  all  but  lost   'er 
number. 


They    sold    'er   into    Norway   because    she   steered   so 

funny. 
An'  she  nearly  went  to  glory  before  they  drawed  the 

money. 

They  sold  'er  out  o'  Norway  —  they  sold  'er  into  Chile, 
An'  Chile  got  a  bargain  because  she  steered  so  silly. 

122 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

They  chartered  'er  to  Germans  with  a  bunch  o'  greasers 

forrard ; 
Old  shellbacks  wouldn't  touch  'er  because  she  steered 

so   'orrid. 

She  set  a  course   for   Bremen   with   contraband  inside 

'er, 
An'   she   might   'ave   got   tlicre   sometime   if   a   cruiser 

"adn't   spied  'er.' 

She  nearly  drowned  the  Ijoarders  because  she  cut  such 

capers. 
But  they  found  she  was  a  German  through  inspectin' 

of  her  papers. 

So   they    i)ut    a    crew    on    board    'er,    which    was   both 

right   and  lawful. 
An'  the   prize   crew   'ad   a   jiicnic   because   she  steered 

so  aw-ful. 

But  they  brought  'cr  into  Kirkwall,  an'  then  they  said, 

■■  Lord  lunimc 
If  I  ever  see  an  'of)ker  as  steered  so  kind  o'  rununy  !  " 

But  she'll  fetch  her  price  at  auction,   for  oh,  she  looks 
a  daisy. 
(Just  the  way  that  some  shii)s  do!) 
.An'  the  chap  as  tops  the  biddin'  won't  know  she  steers 
sr)  crazy 
(But   it's  true,  my  jobiniic   P.owline.  true!) 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 


'-'.^ 


THE  BOOK  of; 


yS         The  Little  J  Fares  of  Breffny 

THE  grand  road  from  the  mountain  goes  shining 
to  the  sea, 
And  there  is  traffic  in  it,  and  many  a  horse  and  cart ; 
But  the  Httle  roads  of  Cloonagh  are  dearer  far  to  me, 
And  the  little  roads  of  Cloonagh  go  rambling  through 
my   heart. 

A  great  storm  from  the  ocean  goes  shouting  o'er  the 

hill, 

And  there   is  glory  in   it,   and  terror  on   the  wind ; 

But  the  haunted  air  of  twilight  is  very  strange  and  still, 

And  the   little  winds  of  twilight   are  dearer   to  my 

mind. 

The  great   waves  of  the  Atlantic   sweep   storming  on 
their  way. 
Shining  green   and   silver   with   the   hidden   herring 
shoal ; 
But    the   little    waves   of    Breffny   have    drenched   my 
heart  in  spray, 
And  the  little  waves  of  Breffny  go  stumbling  through 
my  soul. 

Eva  Gore-Booth 


124 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


^'p  Cargoes 

OUINQUIREME  of  Xineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 
Rowing  home  to  haven  in   sunny   Palestine, 
With  a  cargo  of  ivory. 
And   apes   and   peacocks. 
Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet  white  wine. 

Stately   Spanish   galleon   coming   from  the   Isthmus, 

Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts. 

Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty   British  coaster  with   a  salt-caked  smoke  stack, 

Butting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal. 

Road-rails,  pig-lead, 

Firewood,   iron-ware,   and  cheap   tin   trays. 

Joint  Mascficid 


80  Peep  J  rater  Jack 


O 


IT     it's   •'all.    faro   \<>u   well,"    for   the   deep  sea's 


crying. 
You  thought  you  could  forget  it.  hut  it"s  no  use  trying. 
Trying  to  forget  it  when  it  calls  you  so !  .  .  . 
Hey,  Dee])  Water  Johnnie,  kiss  your  girl  and  go ! 

1^5 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Here's   warmth,   and  soft   living,   and   an   easy   bed  ! 
It's  toil,  and  much  peril,  that  you're  going  to  instead. 
Hard  life,  and  bitter  faring,  and  a  ])oor  man's  fee 
Are  all  of  a  man's  portion  that  follows  the  sea. 

But   it's   "  ah,    fare  you  well,"  the     deep   sea's  calling 
Back  to  cold  and  hunger  and  heaviiig  and  hauling. 
To  decks   awash   and   frozen   yards,   as   very   well   ym 

know : 
But  ah.  Deep  Water  Johnnie,  kiss  your  girl  and  go  ! 

How  can  a  man  help  it.  when  the  (iod  tliat  made  him 
Set  his  feet  to  follow  where  the  four  winds  hade  him? 
How  should  a  man  help  it,  when  his  heart  goes  jigging 
To  the  sea's  song  and  the  sail's  song  and  wind  through 
the  rigging? 

And  it's  "  ah,  fare  you  well,"  for  the  deep  sea's  crying! 
You  thought  you  could  forget  it,  but  it's  no  use  trying, 
Trying  to  forget  it  when  it  calls  you  so !  .  .  . 
Hey,  Deep  Water  Johnnie,  kiss  your  girl  and  go ! 

Cicclx  fox  Smith 


8 1  Uxbridge  Road 

THE  Western   Road  goes   streaming  out  to   seek 
the  cleanly  wild, 

It  pours  the  city's  dim  desires  towards  the  undehled. 
It  sweeps  betwixt  the  huddled  homes  about  its  eddies 
grown 
126  ^ 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

To   smear   the    little   space   between   the    city   and   the 

sown : 
The  torments  of  that  seething  tide  who  is  there  that 

can  see  ? 
There's  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western 

road  l)v  me  I 


He  is  the  Drover  of  the  soul;  he  leads  the  flock  of  men 
All  wistful  on  that  weary  track,  and  brings  them  back 

again. 
The  dreaming  few,  the  slaving  crew,  the  motley  caste 

of  life  — 
The  wastrel  and  artificer,  the  harlot  and   the   wife  — 
They  may  not  rest,  for  ever  pressed  by  one  they  can- 
not see : 
The  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 
by  me. 


He   drives   them   cast,    he   drives   them    west,   between 

the  dark  and  light ; 
He   pastures  them   in   city   jjcns,   he    leads   them   home 

at  night. 
The  towery  trams,  the  tlireadcd  trains,  like  shuttles  to 

and   fro 
To  weave  the  web  of  working  days  in  ceaseless  travel 

go- 
How  harsh   the   warj),   how   long  tlie   weft  !    \\li<>   shall 

the   fabric  see? 
Tiic  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 

by   me  ! 

127 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Throughout  the  living  joyful  year  at  lifeless  tasks  to 

strive, 
And  scarcely  at  the  end  to  save  gentility  alive; 
The  villa  plot  to  sow  and  reap,  to  act  the  villa  lie, 
Beset  by  villa  fears  to  live,  midst  villa  dreams  to  die ; 
Ah,    who    can    know    the    dreary    woe?    and    who    the 

splendour  see? 
The  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 

by  me. 

Behold!  he  lent  me  as  we  went  the  vision  of  the  seer; 
Behold!  I  saw  the  life  of  men,  the  life  of  God  shine 

clear. 
I  saw  the  hidden  Spirit's  thrust ;  I  saw  the  race  fulfil 
The  spiral  of  its  steep  ascent,  predestined  of  the  Will. 
Yet  not  unled,  but   shepherded  by   one   they   may  not 

see  — 
The  one  who  walked  with  starry  feet  the  western  road 

by  me! 

Evelyn  Utidcrhill 


82  Sorley's  Weather 

WHEN   outside   the   icy   rain 
Comes  leaping  helter-skelter, 
Shall  I  tie  my  restive  brain 
Snugly  under  shelter? 

Shall  I  make  a  gentle  song 
Here  in  my  firelit  study, 
128 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

When    outside    the    winds    blow    strong 
And  the  lanes  are  muddy? 

With  old  wine  and  drowsy  meats 

Am  I  to  fill  my  belly? 
Shall  I  glutton  here  with  Keats? 

Shall   I   drink  with   Shelley? 

Tobacco's  pleasant,  firelight's  good: 
Poetry  makes  both  better. 
Clay  is  wet  and  so  is  mud, 
Winter  rains  are  wetter. 

Vet  rest  there.   Shelley,   on  the  sill. 

For    though    the    winds    come    frorely, 
I'm  away  to  the  rain-blown  hill 

And  the  ghost  of  Sorley. 

Robert  Graves 


8^  A  Drover 

TO  Mcalh  of  the-  jjasturcs, 
From  wet  hills  by  the  sea, 
Through    Leitrim    and    Longford, 
Go  my  cattle   and   nic. 

1    hear   in    tin-   darkness 
Their    slijjping   and    breathing  — 
I  name  them  the  bye-ways 
They're  to  pass  without  heeding: 

129 


Till!:  BOOK  OF 

Then  tlie  wet,  winding  roads, 
Brown  bogs  with  black  water; 
And  my  thoughts  on  white  ships 
And  the  King  o'  Spain's  daughter. 

O  !    farmer,   strong   farmer  ! 
You  can  spend  at  the  fair;  ~ 
But  your  face  you  must  turn 
To   your   crops   and   your  care. 

And  soldiers  —  red  soldiers  ! 
You've  seen  many  lands ; 
But  you   walk  two  by   two, 
And  by  captain's  commands. 

0  !  the  smell  of  the  beasts, 
The  wet  wind  in  the  morn ; 
And  the  proud  and  hard  earth 
Never  broken   for   corn : 

And  the   crowds   at   the    fair, 
The  herds  loosened  and  blind, 
Loud  words  and  dark  faces 
And  the  wild  blood  behind. 

(O  !  strong  men,  with  your  best 

1  would  strive  breast  to  breast, 
I  could  quiet  your  herds 

With  my  words,  with  my  words.) 

I    will    bring   you,    my    kinc, 
Where  there's  grass  to  the  knee; 


'30 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

But  you'll  think  of  scant  croppings 
Harsh  with  salt  of  the  sea. 

Padraic  Colum 


84  Haymaking 

AFTER   night's   thunder   far   away   had   rolled 
The  fiery  day  had  a  kernel  sweet  of  cold, 
And  in  the  perfect  blue  the  clouds  uncurled, 
Like   the   first   gods   before   they   made   the   world 
And  misery,   swimming  the   stormless   sea 
In  beauty  and  in  divine  gaiety. 
The  smooth  white  empty  road  was  lightly  strewn 
With   leaves  —  the   holly's   Autumn   falls   in   June  — 
And  fir  cones  standing  stiff  up  in  the  heat. 
The  mill-foot  water  tumbled  white  and  lit 
With  tossing  crystals,   happier   than   any  crowd 
Of   children   pouring  out  of   school   aloud. 
And  in  the  little  thickets  where  a  sleeper 
For  ever   might   lie  lost,   the   nettle-creeper 
.\nd  garden  warbler  sang  unceasingly: 
While   over   them   shrill   shrieked   in   his   fierce   glee 
The   swift   with   wings   and  tail   as  sharp   and  narrow 
As  if  the  bow  had  flown  off  with  the  arrow. 
Only  the  scent  of  woodbine  and  hay  new-mown 
Travelled  the  road.     In  the  field  sloping  down 
I'ark-Iike,   to   where   its   willows   showed   the   brook. 
Haymakers  rested.     The  tosscr  lay  forsook 
Out  in  the  sun ;  and  the  long  wagon  stood 
Without  its  team,  it   seemed   it   never  would 
Move  from  the  shadow  of  that  single  yew. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

The  team,  as  still,  until  their  task  was  due, 

Beside   the   labourers   enjoyed   the   shade 

That  three  squat  oaks  mid-field  together  made 

Upon  a  circle  of  grass  and  weed  uncut. 

And  on  the  hollow,   once   a  chalk-pit,  but 

Now  brimmed  with  nut  and  elder-flower  so  clean. 

The  men  leaned  on  their  rakes,  about  to  begin. 

But  still.     And  all  were  silent.     All  was  old, 

This  morning  time,  with  a  great  age  untold. 

Older  than   Clare   and   Cobbett,    Morland   and   Crome, 

Than,  at  the  field's  far  edge,  the  farmer's  home, 

A  white  house  crouched  at  the   foot  of  a  great  tree. 

Under  the  heavens  that  know  not  what  years  be 

The  men,  the  beasts,  the  trees,  the  implements 

Uttered  even  what  they  will  in  times  far  hence  — 

All  of  us  gone  out  of  the  reach  of  change  — 

Immortal  in  a  picture  of  an  old  grange. 

Edzvard  Thomas 


85  There  are  Songs  Enough 

THERE  are  songs  enough  of  love,  of  joy,  of  grief: 
Roads  to  the  sunset,  alleys  to  the  moon ; 
Poems  of  the  red  rose  and  the  golden  leaf, 
Fantastic  faery  and  gay  ballad  tune. 

The   long   road   unto  nothing   I   will    sing. 

Sing  on  one  note,  monotonous  and  dry, 
Of  sameness,  calmness  and  the  years  that  bring 

No  more  emotion  than  the  fear  to  die. 
132 


MODERN  BRITISH  X'ERSE 

Grey  house,  grey  house  and  after  that  grey  house, 
Another  house  as  grey  and  steep  and  still ; 

An  old  cat  tired  of  playing  with  a  mouse. 
A  sick  child  tired  of  chasing  down  the  hill. 

Shuffle   and   hurry,   idle   feet,   and   slow. 
Grim  face  and  merry  face,  so  ugly  all ! 

Why  do  you  hurry?     Where  is  there  to  go? 

Why  are  you  shouting?     Who  is  there  to  call? 

Lovers   still   kissing,    feverish   to   drain 

Stale   juices   from  the   shrivelled    fruit   of   lust: 

A  black  umbrella  held  u])  in  the  rain, 

The  raindrops  making  patterns  in  the  dust. 

If  this  distaste  I   hold  for  fools  is  such. 
Shall  I  not  spit  upon  myself  as  well? 

Do  I  not  eat  and  drink  and  smile  as  much? 
Do  I  not   fatten  also  in  this  hell  ? 

Sadness  and  joy  —  if  they  were  melted  up, 

Things  that  were  great  —  upon  the  fires  of  time 

Drop  but  as  soup  in  the  accustomed  cup. 
Settle  in   stagnancc,  trickle  into  grime. 

I'aith,   freedom,  art  that  tire  a  m;m  (jr  two 
And  set  him  like  a  pilgrim  on  his  way 

With  Beauty's  face  before  him- — what  of  you, 
Priest,  Butcher,  Scholar,  King,  upon  that  day? 

The  dullard-masses  that  no  god  can  save  ! 
If  I  were  God,  to  rise  and  strike  you  down 

1-33 


THE  ROOK  OF 

And  break  your  churches  in  an  angry  wave 
And  make  a  furious  bonfire  of  your  town  ! 

God  in  a  coloured  globe,  alone  and  still, 
Embroidering  wonders  with  a  fearless  brain, 

On  loom  of  spaces  measureless,  to  fill 

The  emi)ty  air  with  passion  and  with  ])ain. 

Emblazon  all  the  heavens  with  desire 

And  Wisdom  delved  for  in  the  depths  of  time  — 

Thoughts  sculptured  mountainous,  and  fancy's  fire 
Caught    in   the    running   swiftness   of   a    rhyme. 

Passion  high-pedestalled,  pangs  turned  to  treasure. 
Perfected  and  undone  and  built  afresh 

With   concentrated  agony  and   Pleasure  .  .  . 
If   I   were   God,   and  not   a   weight   of   flesh! 

Iris  Tree 


86  Happy  Is  England  Now 

THERE  is  not  anything  more  wonderful 
Than  a  great  people  moving  towards  the  deep 
Of  an  unguessed  and  unfeared  future;  nor 
Is  aught  so  dear  of  all  held  dear  before 
As  the  new  passion  stirring  in  their  veins 
When  the  destroying  Dragon  wakes  from  sleep. 

Happy  is  England  now,  as  never  yet ! 
And  though  the  sorrows  of  the  slow  days  fret 
Her   faithfullest   children,   grief   itself  is  proud. 
134 


>[()DERX   BRITISH  VERSE 

Ev'n   the   warm   l)eauty   of  this   spring  and  summer 
That  turns  to  bitterness  turns  then  to  gladness 
Since  for  this  England  the  beloved  ones  died. 

Happy  is  England  in  the  brave  that  die 

Eor  wrongs  not   hers  and   wrongs   so   sternly   hers; 

Ifappy  in  those  that  give.  give,  and  endure 

The  pain  that  never  the  new'  years  may  cure: 

Happy  in  all  her  dark  woods,  green  fields,  towns. 

Her  hills  and   rivers  and   her  chafing  sea. 

What'er  was  dear  before  is  dearer  now. 
There's  not  a  bird  singing  u])on  his  bough 
But  sings  the   sweeter  in   our   English  ears: 
There's  not  a  nobleness  of  heart,  hand,  brain 
But  shines  the  purer ;  happiest  is  England  now 
In  those  that  fight,   and  watch   with   pride   and  tears. 

fohn  Freeman 


Ry  August,  ipi4 

How  still  this  quiet  cornfield  is  to-night  I 
P)y  an  intenser  glow  the  evening  falls. 
I'ringing,  not  darkness,  but  a  deeper  light; 
Among  the  stooks  a  partridge  covey  calls. 

The   windows  glitter  on  the  distant  hill ; 
I'lcyond  the  hedge  the  sheep-bells  in  the  fold 
."^tumble  on  sudden  music  and  arc  still ; 
The    forlorn   jiinewoods   droop   al)ove   the   wold. 

'35 


THE  BOOK  OF 

An    endless   quiet    valley    reaches    out 
Past  the  blue  hills  into  the  evening  sky; 
Over  the  stubble,  cawing  goes  a  rout 
Of  rooks   from  harvest,   flagging  as  they  fly. 

So  beautiful  it  is,  I  never  saw 
So  great  a  beauty  on  these  English  fields, 
Touched  by  the  twilight's  coming  into  awe. 
Ripe  to  the  soul  and  rich  with  summer's  yields. 

These  homes,  this  valley  spread  below  me  here, 
The  rooks,  the  tilted  stacks,  the  beasts  in  pen. 
Have  been  the  heartfelt  things  past-speaking  dear 
To  unknown  generations  of  dead  men, 

Who,  century  after  century,  held  these  farms, 
And,  looking  out  to  watch  the  changing  sky, 
Heard,  as  we  hear,  the  rumours  and  alarms 
Of  war  at  hand  and  danger  pressing  nigh. 

And  knew,  as  we  know,  that  the  message  meant 
The  breaking  off  of  ties,  the  loss  of  friends, 
Death,  like  a  miser  getting  in  his  rent. 
And  no  new  stones  laid  w^here  the  trackway  ends. 

The  harvest  not  yet  won,  the  empty  bin, 
The   friendly   horses   taken    from   the   stalls, 
The  fallow  on  the  hill  not  yet  brought  in, 
The  cracks  unplastered  in  tlie  leaking  walls. 

Yet  heard  the  news,  and  went  discouraged  home, 
And  brooded  by  the  fire  with  heavy  mind, 
136 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

With  such   dumb  loving-  of  the   r>crkshirc  loam 
As  breaks  the  dumb  licarls  of  the  English  kind, 

Then  sadly  rose  and  left  the  well-loved  Downs, 
And  so  by  ship  to  sea.  and  knew  no  more 
The  fields  of  home,  the  byres,  the  market  towns. 
Nor  the  dear  outline  of  the  English  shore, 

But  knew  the  misery  of  the  soaking  trench, 
The  freezing  in  the  rigging,  the  despair 
In  the  revolting  second  of  the  wrench 
When  the  blind  soul  is  t1ung  upon  the  air. 

And  died  (uncouthly.  most)  in  foreign  lands 
For  some  idea  but  dimly  understood 
Of  an   English  city  never  built  by  hands 
Which  love  of  England  jjronijjted  and  made  good. 

If   there   be   any   life   beyond  the   grave, 
It   must   be   near  the   men   and   things  we  love. 
Some  power  of  quick  suggestion  how  to  save. 
Touching  the  living  soul  as   from  above. 

An  influence  from  the  I-larth  from  those  dead  hearts 
So  passionate  once,   so  deep,   so  truly   kind. 
That   in   the   living  child   the    spirit   starts. 
Feeling  companioned  still,  ikiI   b  It   brliiiul. 

Surely  above  these  fields  a  spirit  broods, 
A  sense  of  many  watchers,  muttering  near, 
Of  the  lone  Downland  with  the   forUjrn  woods 
Loved  to  the  death,   iiiestim.dily  <lcar. 

^i7 


THE  BOOK  OF 

A  muttering  from  beyond  the  veils  of  Death 
From  long-dead  men,  to  whom  this  quiet  scene 
Came  among  blinding  tears  with  the  last  breath, 
The  dying  soldier's  vision  of  his  queen. 

All  the  unspoken  worship  of  those  lives 
Spent  in  forgotten  wars  at  other  calls 
Glimmers  upon  these  fields  where  evening  drives 
Beauty  like  breath,   so  gently   darkness   falls. 

Darkness  that  makes  the  meadows  holier  still ; 
The  elm-trees  sadden  in  the  hedge,  a  sigh 
Moves  in  the  beech-clump  on   the  haunted  hill. 
The  rising  planets  deepen  in  the  sky. 

And  silence  broods  like  spirit  on  the  brae : 
A  glimmering  moon  begins,  the  moonlight  runs 
Over  the  grasses  of  tlie  ancient  way 
Rutted  this  morning  by  the  passing  guns. 

John   Mase field 


88  1914 

I 

PEACE 

NOW,   God  be  thanked  who  has  matched  us  with 
His  hour. 
And  caught  our  youth,  and  wakened  us  from  sleeping, 
With  hand  made  sure,  clear  eye,  and  sharpened  power 
To  turn,  as  swimmers  into  cleanness  leaping, 
138 


^rODERN  BRITISH  N'ERSE 

(ilad  from  a  world  grown  old  and  cold  and  weary, 
Leave  the  sick  hearts  that  honor  could  not  move, 
And  half-men,  and  their  dirty  songs  and  dreary. 
And  all  the   little   emptiness  of  love  ! 
Oh  !  we,  who  have  known  shame,  we  have   found  re- 
lease there. 
Where  there's  no  ill.  no  grief,  but  sleep  has  mending. 
Naught  hrokcn  save  this  body,  lost  but  breath  ; 
Xothing  to  shake  the  laughing  heart's  long  peace  there 
But   only   agony,    and    tiiat    has   ending; 
And   the   worst    friend   and   enemy   is   but   Death. 


II 


Dear!  of  all  happy  in  the  hour,  most  blest 
He  who  has  found  our  hid  security, 
Assured  in  the  dark  tides  of  the  world  that  rest, 
And  heard  our  word,  "  Who  is  so  safe  as  we?  " 
We  have  found  safety  with  all  things  undying. 
The  winds,  and  morning,  tears  of  men  and  mirth. 
The  deep  night,  and  birds  singing,  and  clouds  flying, 
And  sleep,  and  freedom,  and  the  autumnal  earth. 
We  have  built  a  house  that  is  not  for  Time's  throwing. 
We  have  gained  a  peace  unshaken  by  pain  for  ever. 
War  knows  no  power.     Safe  shall  be  my  going. 
Secretly  armed  against  all  death's  endeavor; 
Safe  though  all  safety's  lost;  safe  where  men  fall; 
And  if  these  j)oor  limbs  die,  safest  of  all. 


•39 


THE  BOOK  OF 
in 

THE    DEAD 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich-Dead ! 

There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 

But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 

These  laid  the  world  away ;  poured  out  the  red 

Sweet  wine  of  youth  ;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 

Of  work  and  joy.  and  that  imhoped  serene, 

That  men  call  age;  and  those  who  would  have  been, 

Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow !     They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth. 

Holiness,   lacked   so  long,   and   Love,   and   Pain. 

Honor  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth. 

And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 

And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again ; 

And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

IV 

THE   DE.AD 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares, 

Washed  marvellously  with  sorrow,  swift  to  mirth. 

The  years  had  given  them  kindness.     Dawn  was  theirs. 

And  sunset,  and  the  colors  of  the  earth. 

These  had   seen   movement,   and  heard  music;   known 

Slumber  and  waking;  loved;  gone  proudly  friended; 

Felt  the  quick  stir  of  wonder;  sat  alone; 

Touched    flowers    and    furs    and    cheeks.     All    this    is 

ended. 
There  are  waters  blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter 
And  lit  by  the   rich   skies,  all  day.     And  after, 

140 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Frost,  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 
In  wandering  lovcHness.     He  leaves  a  vvliite 
Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance. 
A   width,    a   shining  peace,    under   the   night. 


THE    SOLDIER 

If  I   should  die.  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 

That  is  forever  England.     There  shall  be 

In   that    rich   earth   a    richer   dust   concealed: 

A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  w'ays  to  roam ; 

A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air. 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away. 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  tlie  thoughts  by  England  given 

Her  sights  and  sounds:  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 

And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness. 

In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooke 


8g  Tlic  Kiss 

T<)  tlux-  1   turn,  in  those  I  trust; 
I'.rother  Eead  and  Sister  Steel. 
To   his   blind   jiowcr   T   make   appeal ; 
I  guard  her  beauty  clean  from  rust. 

141 


THE  BOOK  OF 

He  spins  and  burns  and  loves  the  air, 
And  splits  a  skull  to  win  my  praise; 
But  up  the  nobly  marching  days 
She  glitters  naked,  cold  and  fair. 

Sweet  Sister,  grant  your  soldier  this ; 
That   in  good   fury  he  may   feel 
The  body  where  he  sets  his  heel 
Quail  from  your  downward  darting  kiss. 

Siegfried  Sassoon 


go  The  Spires  of  Oxford 

(as  seen  from  the  train) 

I    SAW  the  spires  of  Oxford 
As  I  was  passing  by, 
The  gray  spires  of  Oxford 
Against  a  pearl-gray  sky. 
My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 
Who  went  abroad  to  die. 

The  years  go   fast  in  Oxford, 
The  golden  years  and  gay. 

The  hoary  Colleges  look  down 
On  careless  boys  at  play, 

But  when  the  bugles  sounded  war ! 
They  put  their  games  away. 

They  left  the  peaceful  river, 
The  cricket-field,  the  squad, 
142 


MODERN  BRITISH  \'ERSE 

The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford 

To  seek  a  hloody  sod, — 
They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 

For  country  and  for  God. 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen, 
Who  laid  your  good  lives  down, 

Who  took  the  khaki   and  the  gun 
Instead  of  cap  and  gown. 

God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 
Than  even  Oxford  town. 

Winifred  M.   Letts 


QT  Conscripts 

t4T~^  ALL  in,  that  awkward  squad,  and  strike  no  more 

]l       Attractivf  attitudes  !     Dress  by  the  right ! 
The  luminous  rich  colours  that  you  wore 
Have  changed  to  hueless  khaki  in  the  night. 
Magic?     What's  magic  got  to  do  with  you? 
There's    no    such    thing!     Rlood's    red    and    skies    are 
blue." 

They  gasj)cd  and  sweated,  marching  up  and  down. 
I  drilled  them  till  they  cursed  my  raucous  shout. 
Love  chuckefl  his  lute  away  and  droi)])ed  his  crown. 
Rhyme  got  sore  heels  anrl  wanted  to  fall  out. 
"Left,  right  !      Press  on  your  butts!  "     They  lo<jked  at 

me 
Reproachful;  how  1  longed  to  set  tiiein  free! 


THE  BOOK  OF 

I  gave  them  lectures  on  Defence,  Attack; 
They  fidgeted  and  shuffled,  yawned  and  sighed, 
And  boggled  at  my  questions.     Joy  was  slack. 
And  Wisdom   gnawed  his  fingers,   gloomy-eyed. 
Young  Fancy  —  how   I   loxcd  him  all  the  while  — 
Stared  at  his  note-hook  with  a  rueful  smile. 

Their  training  done.   I    shipped  them  all  to  France. 

Where  most  of  those  I'd  loved  too  well  got  killed. 

Rapture  and  pale  Knchantnient  and  Romance, 

And  many  a  sickly,  slender  lord  who'd  filled 

My  soul  long  since  with  litanies  of  sin. 

Went  home,  because  they  couldn't  stand  the  din. 

But  the  kind,  common  ones  that  T  despised, 
(Hardly  a  man  of  theni  I'd  count  as  friend), 
W^hat   stubborn-hearted   virtues   they   disguised ! 
They  stood  and  played  the  hero  to  the  end. 
Won  gold  and  silver  medals  bright  tv'ith  bars, 
And  marched  resplendent  home  with  crowns  and  stars. 

Siegfried  Sassoon 


^2  Youth  and  Age 


YOUTH 

OUTSIDE  the  church  the  mourning  children  cried 
I""or  some  old  man  who  died  of  ripe  old  age, 
Mourning  his  short  appearance  on  this  stage. 
They  said:     "He  was  but  seventy,  and  then  he  died." 
'44 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


THE    OLD 

Throughout  this  dreadful  war  we  sit  and  sigh. 

For  all  the  youthful  millions  that  must  die. 

Yet  still  we  see  God's  mercy,  and  we  say 

•'  They  knew  not  sorrow,  cast  their  lives  away 

In  all  their  powerful  promise  of  the  sprin;^. 

They  saw  not  autunui,  thus  were  doubly  hlest ; 

They  never  lost  their  faculties,"  we  sing. 

Warming  our   withered  hands:   "Perhaps  it's   for  the 

best. 
Their  loss  was  cruel,  or  shall  we  say  their  gain, 
Yet  it's  the  country's  glory,  and  its  pain." 
And  thus  eternally  old  age  shall  sit 
Mouthing  youth's  sorrows  for  its  benefit. 
Why  can't  the  old  keep  quiet,  and  sit  and  sigh? 
Or,  failing  that,  why  can't  they  fail  and  die? 

Osbcrt  Sitwcll 


(jj  ilcforc  .  let  ion 

1S1T  beside  the  brazier's  glow. 
And,  drowsing  in  the  heat, 
I    dream   of    daffodils   that   blow 
And  laml)s  that  frisk  and  bleat  — 

Black   lambs  that    frolic   in   the  snow 
Among  the  daffodils. 
In  a  far  orchard  that   I   know 
Beneath  the  Malvern  hills. 

145 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Next  year  the  daffodils  will  blow, 
And  lambs  will   frisk  and  bleat ; 
But   I'll   not    feel   the   l)razier's   glow, 
Nor  any  cold  or  heat  .  .  . 

IVilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


P4  The  Iron  Music 

THE  French  guns  roll  continuously 
And  our  guns,  heavy,  slow ; 
Along  the  Ancre,  sinuously, 
The  transport  wagons  go. 
And  the  dust  is  on  the  thistles 
And  the  larks  sing  up  on  high  .  .  . 
But  I  sec  the  Golden  Valley 
Down  by  Tin  tern  on  the  IV  ye. 

For  it's  just  nine  weeks  last  Sunday 

Since  we  took  the  Chepstow  train, 

And  I'm  wondering  if  one  day 

We  shall  do  the  like  again ; 

For  the  four-point-two's  come  screaming 

Thro'  the  sausages  on  high ; 

So  there's  little  use  in  dreaming 

How  zve  walked  above  the  Wye. 

Dust  and  corpses  in  the  thistles 

Where  the  gas  shells  burst  like  snow, 

And  the  shrapnel  screams  and  whistles 

On  the  Becourt  road  below, 

And  the  High  Wood  bursts  and  bristles 

146 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Where  the  mine-clouds  foul  the  sky  .  ,  . 
But  I'm  with  you   up  at   Wyndcroft, 
Over  Tintcrn  on  the  Wye. 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer 


P5  To  the  Poet  Before  Battle 

Now,  youth,  the  hour  of  thy  dread  passion  comes, 
Thy  lovely  things  must  all  be  laid  away ; 
And  thou,  as  others,  must  face  the  riven  day 
Unstirred  by  rattle  of  the  rolling  drums 
Or  bugles'  strident  cry.     When  mere  noise  numbs 
The  sense  of  being,  the  sick  soul  doth  sway. 
Remember  thy  great  craft's  honour,  that  they  may  say 
Nothing  in  shame  of  poets.     Then  the  crumbs 
Of  praise  the  little  vcrsemen  joyed  to  take 
Shall  be  forgotten ;  then  they  must  know  we  arc 
For  all  our  skill  in  words,  equal  in  might 
And  strong  of  mettle  as  those  we  honoured.     Make 
The  name  of  poet  terrible  in   just  w.ir, 
And  like  a  crown  of  honour  upon  ihc  iighl. 

Ivor  Gurney. 


p6  'J' he  J-'ear 

1I)( )  Milt   fear  to  die 
'Neath    tlic    open    sky, 
To  meet  death  in  the  fight 
Face  to  face,  upright. 

'47 


THE  COOK  OF 

But  when  at  last  \vc  creep 
Into  a  hole  to  sleep, 
1    tremhle,    cold    with    dread, 
Lest  I  wake  uj)  dead. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

97  The  Question 

I  WONDER  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not, 
Gey  bad  she  was  the  night  I  left,  and  sick. 
Dick   reckoned   she   would   mend.     He   knows   a   lot  - 
At  least  he  fancies  so  himself,  does  Dick. 

Dick  knows  a  lot.     But  maybe  I  did  wrong 
To  leave  the  cow  to  him,  and  come  away. 
Over  and  over  like  a  silly  song 
These  words  keep  humming  in  my  head  all  day. 

And  all   I  think  of,  as  I   face  the  foe 
And  take  my  lucky  chance  of  being  shot. 
Is  this  —  that  if  I'm  hit,  I'll  never  know 
Till  Doomsday  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

g8  In  the  Trendies 


NOT  that  we  are  weary, 
Not  that  we  fear, 
Not  that  we  are  lonely 
Though   never  alone  — 
148 


MODERN  DRITISII  VERSE 

Xot   these,   not  these  destroy  us; 
But  that  each  rush  and  crash 
Of   mortar    and    shell. 
Each   cruel   bitter  shriek   of   bullet 
That  tears  the  wind  like  a  blade. 
Each  wound  on  the  breast  of  earth, 
Of  Demeter,  our  Mother. 
Wounds  us  also, 
Severs  and  rends  the  fine  fabric 
Of  the  wings  of  our  frail  souls, 
Scatters  into  dust  the  bright  wings 
Of   Psvche! 


Impotent, 

How  impotent  is  all  this  clamour, 
This  destruction  and  contest  .  .  . 

Xight  after  night  conies  the  moon 

Haughty  and   perfect; 

Xight  after  night  the  Pleiades  sing 

And  Cjrion  swings  his  belt  across  the  sky. 

Xight  after  night  the  frost 

Crumbles  the  hard  earth. 

Soon  the  spring  will   drop  flowers 

And  patient.  creci)ing  stalk  and  leaf 

Along  these  l)arren  lines 

Where  the  huge  rats  scuttle 

.\nd   the   hawk   shrieks   to  the   carrictn   crow. 

Can  yini  stay  tbcni  with  your  noise? 
Then  kill  winter  with  yonr  cannon. 

149 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Hold  back  Orion  with  your  bayonets 

And  crush  the  spring  leaf  with  your  armies! 

Richard  Aldington 


Qp  Dreamers 

SOLDIERS  are  citizens  of  death's  grey  land, 
Drawing  no  dividend  from  time's  to-morrows. 
In   the   great   hour  of   destiny  they   stand, 

Each  with  his  feuds,  and  jealousies,  and  sorrows. 
Soldiers  are  sworn  to  action ;  they  must  win 

Some   flaming,   fatal  climax  with   their  lives. 
Soldiers  are  dreamers ;   when  the  guns  begin 
They  think  of  firelit  homes,  clean  beds,  and  wives. 

I  see  them  in  foul  dug-outs,  gnawed  by  rats, 
And  in  the  ruined  trenches,  lashed  w'ith  rain. 

Dreaming  of  things  they  did  with  balls  and  bats, 
And  mocked  by  hopeless  longing  to  regain 

Bank-holidays,  and  picture-shows,  and  spats, 
And  going  to  the  office  in  the  train. 

Siegfried  Sassoon 


100  Dusk 

To  J.  C. 

THERE  where   the  brown  leaves   fall 
from  elm  and  chestnut  and  i)lane-tree : 
here  where  the  brown  leaves  drift 
along  the  paths  to  the  lake 
150 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

where  the  waterfowl  breast  the  waves 
that  are  ridged  by  the  wind, — 

you  spoke  of  your  art  and  life, 

of  men  you  had  known  who  betrayed  you, 

men   who   fell   short  of    friendship 

and  women  who  fell  short  of  love: 

but  abiding  beyond  them,  your  art 

held  you  to  life,  transformed  it,  became  it, 

and  so  you  were  free. 

And  I  told  you  of  all  my  weakness, — 

my   growing   strength  to   resist 

the   appeal    to   my   heart    and   eyes 

of  sorrowful,  beautiful   things: 

and  the  strength   of  this  outer  husk 

I    had   permitted   to   grow   and   protect   me 

was  its  pitiful  measure. 

You   said:     There   arc   cracks   in   the   husk. 

It  grew  to  your  measure  i)crhaps  once; 

but   you   are   now   breaking   through    it,    and   soon 

it  will  fall  apart  and  away  from  you. 

Like  a  tree  content  with  its  fate. 

you  would  not  have  known  it  was  there 

if  it  hacl  grown   to  remain. 

The  cold   winfl  blew   the   brown   leaves 
on   to   the    lovers   beneath, 
who  crept   closer   together    for   warmth 
and   closer   still    for    love. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

The  peacocks  perched  in  the  branches 
hawked  their  harsh  cry  at  the  j^jolden 
round  mtjon   that   k)()nicd  over  the  tree-tops. 

And  the  sound  of  our  feet  on  the  gravel 

for  a  time  was  answer  enough 

to  the  broken  mesh  of  our  thoughts. 

I   said:     T   have  wife  and   children, 

a  girl  and  a  boy :  I  love  them ; 

the  gold  of  their  hair  is  all  the  gold 

of  my  thoughts;  the  blue  of  their  eyes 

is  all  the  purity  of  my  vision  ; 

the   rhythm   of  their   life   is   more   to  be  watched 

than   the   cadences   of  my   poems. 

And  you   asked  me : 

Have  you  taken   refuge  behind  them? 

Do  you  not  fear  to  lose  your  life 

in   saving   it    for   them? 

Be  brave !     Be  brave !     The  waters  are  deep, 

the  waves  run  high ;  but  you  arc  a  swimmer : 

strike  out ! 

The  cold  wind  l)levv  the  brown  leaves 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  dusk ; 
the  peacocks  had  hushed  their  cries; 
the  moon  had  turned  her  gold  into  silver, 
and  between  the  black  lace  of  two  trees 
one  star  shone  clearly. 
152 


MODERN'  BRITISH  VERSE 

O    night ! 

liave  I  deserved  your  beauty? 

F.  S.  Flint 


1 01  The  Birds  Flit  Unafraid 

From  "  Battle  of  the  Marne  " 


*t'~p^HE  birds  flit  unafraid 
X     Throue 


igh   the   great   cannonade; 
And,   O   Cannoniers,  though   ill 
The  forests  take  your  skill 
And  as  by  winter  nipp'd 
Scatter  leaves  bullet-stript 
Down   the   shell-ravaged    road  — 
Still,   in   its  dark  abode, 
In  the  branches  of  God, 
The   Soul   sings   on   alone ; 
^'ou  may  blow  the  dead  from  their  crypt  — 
Xot  the  dream  from  its  throne  I  " 

Herbert  Trench 


102  A  Mystic  as  Soldier 

ILI\'ED  my  days  ajjart, 
Dreaming  fair  songs  for  God, 
liy  the  glory  in  my  heart 
Covered   and  crowned   and   shod. 

Xow  God  is  in  the  strife. 
And  I  must  seek   iliiu  there. 

153 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Where  death  outnumbers  hfe, 
And  fury  smites  the  air. 

I   walk   the   secret   way 
With  anger  in  my  brain. 
O  music  through  my  clay, 
When  will  you  sound  again? 

Siegfried  Sassoon 


loj  Terror 


THOSE  of  the  earth  envy  us, 
Envy  our  beauty  and  frail  strength 
Those  of  the  wind  and  the  moon 
Envy  our  pain. 


For  as  a  doe  that  has  never  borne  child 
We  were  swift  to  fly  from  terror; 
And  as  fragile  edged  steel 
W'e  turned,  we  pierced,  we  endured. 


We  have  known  terror: 

The  terror  of  the  wind  and  silent  shadows, 
The  terror  of  great  heights, 
The  terror  of  the  worm, 
The  terror  of  thunder  and  fire, 
The  terror  of  water  and  slime, 
The  terror  of  horror  and  fear, 
154 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

The  terror  of  desire  and  pain  — 
The  terror  of  apathy. 

IV 

As  a  beast,  as  an  arrow  of  pine, 

Terror  cleft  us, 

Tore  us  in  envy  away, 

So  that   for  month  upon  month 

Pain  wore  us,  hope  left  us,  despair  clutched  us. 

For  they  of  the  earth  envied  us. 

Envied  our  beauty  and  strength. 


\ei  because,  though  we  faltered  and  wept. 
We  held  fast,  clung  close  to  our  love, 
Scorned  hate  even  as  they  scorned  us, 
Some  god  has  lightened  our  lives. 
Given  back  the  cool  mouth  of  song 
And  the  hands  that   blossom  of  fire. 
Given,  too.  the  mouth  crushed  like  a  tlower 
Which  unpctals  in  marvellous  ways. 
The  limbs  that  are  hard  and  straight 
With  maidenly  thews  and  blood, 
Given  these  so  that  day  is  aflame 
.\nd  night  shot  golden  with   shafts. 


We  have  suffcre*!.  we  have  bled. 
And  those  of  the  wind  and  the  moon 
Envy  our  pain,  the  i)ain  of  ihe  terror. 
Ihc  delight   no  terror  could  slay. 

Richard  Aldington 

•55 


THE  BOOK  OF 


104  Into  Battle 

THE  naked  earth  is  warm  with  spring, 
And  with  green  grass  and  bursting  trees 
Leans  to  the  sun's  gaze  glorying, 

And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze ; 
And  life  is  colour  and  warmth  and  light, 

And  a  striving  evermore  for  these ; 
And  he  is  dead  who'  will  not  fight ; 
And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase. 

The  fighting  man  shall  from  the  sun 

Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth ; 

Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run 
And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth  ; 

And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done, 
Great  rest,  and   fullness  after  dearth. 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 

Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship, 
The  Dog-Star,  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 

Orion's    Belt   and   sworded  hip. 
The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together, 

They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend ; 
They  gently  speak  in  the  windy  weather; 

They  guide  to  valley  and  ridge's  end. 

The    kestrel    hovering   by    day, 

And   the   little   owls   that   call   by   night, 

Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  they, 
As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 
156 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

The  blackbird  sings  to  him,  "  Brother,  brother, 
If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing, 

Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another ; 
Brother,  sing."' 

In  dreary,  doubtful,  waiting  hours. 

Before  the  brazen  frenzy  starts, 
The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers 

O  patient  eyes,  courageous  hearts ! 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks, 
And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind. 

And  only  joy  of  battle  takes 

Him  by  the  throat,  and  makes  him  blind, 

Through  joy  and  blindness  he  shall  know 

Xot  caring  much  to  know,  that  still 
Xor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 

That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 

The  thundering  line  of  battle  stands, 
.\nd  in  the  air  death  moans  and  sings; 

r.ut  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands. 
And  Night  shall  fold  him  in  soft  wings. 

Julian  Grcnfcll 


/05  The  Assault  Heroic 

DOWN    in   the   niiul    1    lay. 
Tired  out  by  my  long  day 
Of  five  damned  days  and  nights. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Five    sleepless    days    and    nights  .  . 
Dream-snatched,  and  set  me  where 
The  dungeon  of  Despair 
Looms  over  Desolate  Sea, 
Frovv^ning  and  threatening  me 
With  aspect  high  and  steep  — 
A  most  malignant  keep. 
My  foes  that  lay  within 
Shouted  and  made  a  din, 
Hooted  and  grinned  and  cried : 
"To-day  we've  killed  your  pride: 
To-day  your  ardour  ends. 
We've   murdered   all   your   friends : 
We've  undermined  by  stealth 
Your  happiness  and  your  health. 
We've  taken  away  your  hope ; 
Now  you  may  droop  and  mope 
To  misery  and  to  Death." 
But  with  my  spear  of  Faith, 
Stout  as  an  oaken  rafter. 
With  my  round  shield  of  laughter, 
With  my  sharp,  tongue-like  sword 
That  speaks  a  bitter  word, 
I  stood  beneath  the  wall 
And  there  defied  them  all. 
The  stones  they  cast  I  caught 
And  alchemized  with  thought 
Into  such  lumps  of  gold 
As  dreaming  misers  hold. 
The  boiling  oil  they  threw 
Fell  in  a  shower  of  dew, 
Refreshing  me;   the  spears 


158 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Flew  harmless  by  my  ears, 
Struck  quivering  in  the  sod; 
There,  like  the  prophet's  rod, 
Put  leaves  out,  took  firm  root, 
And  bore  me  instant  fruit. 
My  foes  were  all  astounded, 
Dumbstricken  and  confounded. 
Gaping  in  a  long  row  : 
They  dared  not  thrust  nor  throw. 
Thus.  then.  I  climbed  a  steep 
Buttress  and   won   the  keep. 
And   laughed   and   proudly  blew 
My  horn,  "Stand  to!     Stand  to! 
Wake  up,  sir!     Here's  a  new 
Attack!     Stand  to!     Stand  to!" 

Robert  Graves 


]()6  ■    The  Assault 

''T^III-.  beating  of  the  guns  grows  louder. 

X      ■■  Xot  loni^,  boys,  non'." 
.My   heart   burns   whiter,    fearfuller,   prouder. 
Hurricanes   grow 
,\s  guns  redouble  their  fire. 
Through    the    shaken    periscoi)e    peeping, 
I   glimpse  their  wire: 

Rlack  earth,  fountains  of  earth  rise,  leajjing, 
Spouting  like  shocks  of  lueeting  waves. 
Death's    fountains   are   playing. 
Shells  like  shrieking  birds   rush   ovir  . 

'59 


Till':  nuoK  ui' 

Crash  and  din  rises  higher. 

A  stream  of  lead  raves 

Over  us  from  the  left  .  .  .   (we  safe  under  cover!) 

Crash  !     Reverberation  !     Crash  ! 

Acrid  smoke  billowing.     Flash  upon  flash. 

Black  smoke  drifting.     The  German  line 

Vanishes  in  confusion,  smoke.     Cries,  and  cry 

Of  our  men,  "  Gah.  ycr  szviiic! 

)'c'rc  for  it  "  die 

In   a  hurricane  of  shell. 

One    cry : 

"  Ji'c'rc  comin'  soon!  look  out!" 

There  is  opened  hell 

Over  there ;  fragments  fly, 

Rifles  and  bits  of  men  whirled  at  the  sky: 

Dust,  smoke,  thunder  !     A  sudden  bout 

Of  machine  guns  chattering  .  .  . 

And    redoubled    battering. 

As  if  in   fury  at  their  daring!  ... 

Xo  good  staring. 

Time    soon    now  .  .  .  home  .  .  .  house    on     a    sunny 

hill  ... 
Gone   like  a   flickered  page: 
Time  soon  now  .  .  .  zero  .  .  .  will  engage  .  .  . 

A  sudden  thrill  — 
"  Fix  bayonets  !  " 
Gods !   we  have  our  fill 
Of   fear,   hysteria,   exultation,   rage, 
1 60 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Rage  to  kill. 

My  heart  burns  hot.  whiter  and  whiter, 

Contracts  tighter  and  tighter, 

Until  I  stifle  with  the  will 

Long    forged,    now    used 

(Though  utterly  strained)  — 

O  pounding  heart. 

Baffled,  confused. 

Heart  i)anged.  head  singing,  dizzily  pained  — 

To  do  my  part. 

Blindness  a  moment.     Sick. 

There   the    men    are  I 

Bayonets  ready:  click  ! 

Time  goes  quick ; 

A  stumbled  prayer  .  .  .  somehow  a  blazing  star 

In  a  blue  night  .  .  .  where? 

.Again  prayer. 

The   tongue   trips.     Start : 

How's  time?     Soon  now.     Two  minutes  or  less. 

The  gun's  fury  mounting  higher  .  .  . 

Their   utmost.     I    lift    a   silent   hand.     Unseen    I    IHcss 

Those  hearts  will    follnw  me. 

And    beautifully. 

Now  beautifully  my   will  grip>. 

Soul  calm  and  round  and  filnu-il  ;m(l  white! 

A  shout:     ■■  Mrn.  no  such  order  as  retire!" 
I  nod. 

i'lic  \vhi>tlc's    twixl  my  lips  .  .  . 
I  catch 
A  wan,  worn  smile  at   me. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Dear  men ! 

The  pale  wrist-watch  .  .  . 

The  quiet  hand  ticks  on  amid  the  din. 

The  guns  again 

Rise  to  a  last  fury,  to  a  rage,  a  lust: 

Kill!     Pound!     Kill!     Pound!     Pound! 

Now  comes  the  thrust ! 

My  part  .  .  .  dizziness  .  .  .  will  .  .  .  but  trust 

These  men.     The  great  guns  rise; 

Their  fury  seems  to  burst  the  earth  and  skies ! 

They  lift. 

Gather,  heart,  all  thoughts  that  drift; 

Be  steel,  soul. 

Compress  thyself 

Into  a  round,  bright  whole. 

I  cannot  speak. 

Time.     Time ! 

I    hear   my    whistle    shriek, 
Between  teeth  set ; 
1   fling  an  arm  up, 
Scramble  up  the  grime 
Over  the  parapet ! 
Pm   up.     Go   on. 
Something  meets  us. 

Head  down  into  the  storm  that  greets  us. 
A  wail. 

Lights.     Blurr. 
Gone. 
162 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

On,  on.     Lead.     Lead.     Hail. 

Spatter.     Whirr !     Whirr ! 

"  Toivard  that  patch  of  brown; 

Direction  left."     Bullets  a  stream. 

Devouring  thought  crying  in  a  dream. 

Men,  crumpled,  going  down  .  .  . 

Go  on.     Go. 

Deafness     Numbness     The   loudening   tornado 

Bullets     Mud.     Stumbling  and  skating. 

My  voice's  strangled  shout: 

"  Steady  pace,  boys!  " 

The   still   light:   gladness 

"Look,  sir.     Look  out!'' 

Ha !    ha  !     Bunched    figures    waiting. 

Revolver  levelled  quick  ! 

Flick !     Flick  ! 

Red  as  blood. 

Germans.     Germans. 

Good  !     O  good  ! 

Cool  madness. 

Robert  Nichols 

loj  To  .illy  Dead  Officer 

'V.\.\.,  how  arc  things  in   Heaven?      1    wish  you'd 


w 


say, 

i'lccausc  I'd  like  to  know  that  youK.'  all  rigiit. 
Tell  me,  have  you  louml  everlasting  day. 

Or  been  sucked  in  by  everlasting  night? 
[•"or  when  I  shut  my  eyes  your  face  shows  pain ; 
I  hear  you  make  some  cheery  old  remark  — 

1O3 


THE  BOOK  OF 

I   can   rebuild  you   in  my  brain, 
Though  you've  gone  out  patrolHng  in  the  dark. 

^'ou  hated  tours  of  trenches;  you  were  proud 

Of  nothing  more  than  having  good  years  to  spend; 
Longed  to  get  home  and  join  the  careless  crowd 

Of  chaps  who  work  in  peace  with  Time  for  friend. 
That's  all  washed  out  now.     You're  beyond  the  wire : 

No  earthly  chance  can  send  you  crawling  back : 
You've   finished   with   machine-gun   fire  — 

Knocked  over  in  a  hopeless  dud-attack. 

Somehow  I  always  thought  you'd  get  done  in, 

Because  you  were  so  desperate  keen  to  live; 
You  were  all  out  to  try  and  save  your  skin. 

Well  knowing  how  much  the  world  had  got  to  give. 
You  joked  at  shells  and  talked  the  usual  "  shop," 

Stuck  to  your  dirty  job  and  did  it  fine: 
With  "Jesus  Christ!  when  zvill  it  stop?" 

Three  years  .  .  .  It's  Hell  unless  we  break  their  line. 

So  when  they  told  me  youd  been  left   for  dead 

I  wouldn't  believe  them,  feeling  it  must  be  true. 
Next  week  the  bloody   Roll  of  Honour  said 

"Wounded  and  missing" — (That's  the  thing  to  do 
When  lads  are  left  in   shell-holes  dying  slow, 

With  nothing  but  blank  sky  and  wounds  that  ache, 
Moaning  for  water  till  they  know 

It's  night,  and  then  it's  not  worth  while  to  wake!) 
***** 

Good-bye,  old  lad !     Remember  me  to  God, 
And  tell  Him  that  our  Politicians  swear 
164 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERS1-: 

They  won't  give  in  till  Prussian  Rule's  been  trod 

Under  the  Heel  of  England  .  .  .  Are  you  there?  .  .  . 
Yes  .  .  .  and  the  War  won't  end  for  at  least  two  years  ; 
But   we've   got    stacks   of   men  .  .  .  I'm   blind   with 
tears, 
Staring  into  the  dark.     Cheero ! 

I  wish  they'd  killed  you  in  a  decent   show. 

Siegfried  Sassoou 


io8  By  the  IJ^ood 

HOW  still  the  day  is,  and  the  air  how  bright! 
A  thrush  sings  and  is  silent  in  the  wood; 
The  hillside  sleeps  dizzy  with  heat  and  light; 
A  rhythmic  murmur  fills  the  quietude; 
A   woodpecker   prolongs   his   leisured   flight, 
Rising  and  falling  on  the  solitude. 

Rut  there  arc  those  who   far   from  yon  wood  lie. 
Buried   within   the   trench    where   all   were    found. 
A  weight  of  mould  o])i)rcsses  every  eye. 
Within  that  cabin  close  their  limbs  arc  Ixtund. 
And  there  they  rot  amid  the  long,  profound, 
Disastrous  silence  of  grey  earth  and  sky. 

These  once,  too,  rested  where  now  rests  but  one. 
Who  scarce  can  lift  his  j)anged  and  luavv  head. 
Who  drinks  in  grief  the  hot  light  of  the  sun, 
Whose   eyes    watch    dully    the   green    l)ranches    sincad 
Who  feels  his  currents  ever  slowlier  nni. 
Whose  lips  repeat  a  silent  ".  .  .   Dead!  all  dead  !  " 

16; 


THE  BOOK  OF 

0  j-ouths  to  come  shall  drink  air  warm  and  bright, 
Shall  hear  the  bird  cry  in  the  sunny  wood. 

All  my  Young  England  fell  to-day  in  fight : 

That   bird,    that   Avood.    was    ransomed   by   our   blood! 

1  pray  you  when  the  drum  rolls  let   your  mood 
Be  worthy  of  our  deaths  and  your  delight. 

Robert  Xicliols 


log  Songs  from  an  Eznl  JVood 

1 

THERE  is  no  wrath  in  the  stars, 
They  do  not  rage  in  the  sky; 
I  look  from  the  evil  wood 

And  find  myself  wondering  why. 

Why  do  they  not   scream  out 

And  grapple  star  against  star, 
Seeking    for    blood    in    the    wood 

As  all  things  round  me  are? 

They  do  not  glare  like  the  sky 

Or  flash  like  the  deeps  of  the  wood; 

Rut   they   shine   softly   on 
In  their  sacred  solitude. 

To  their  high,  happy  haunts 

Silence  from  us  has  flown, 
She  whom  we  loved  of  old 

And  know  it  now  she  is  gone. 
1 66 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

When  will  she  come  again. 

Though   for  one  second  only? 
She  whom   we   loved  is  gone 

And  the   whole   world   is  lonely. 


Somewhere  lost  in  the  haze 

The   sun   goes   down    in   the   cold, 

And  birds  in  this  evil  wood 
Chirrup  home  as  of  old  : 

C'hirru]),    stir,    and    are    still 

On  the  high  twigs  frozen  and  thin. 
There  is  no  more  noise  of  them  now, 

.And  the  long  night  sets  in. 

Of  all  the  wonderful  things 
That   I   have  seeiT  in   the  wood, 

I  marvel  most  at  the  birds 
.■\nd  their  wondirfnl   f|uit'tude. 

I'or  a  giant  smites  with  his  club 
All   day  the  tops  of  the  hill. 

Sometimes  he  rests  at  night. 
Oftcner  he  beats  them  still. 

And  a  dwarf  with  a  grim  black  mane 

Raps  with  repeated  rage 
All  night  in  the  valley  below 

On  the  wooden  walls  of  his  cage. 


.67 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And  the  elder  giants  come 

Sometimes,    tramping   from    far 

Through  the  weird  and  flickering  light 
Made  by  an  earthly  star. 


And  the  giant  with  his  club, 

And  the  dwarf  with  rage  in  his  breath, 
And  the  elder  giants  from  far, 

They  are  all  the  children  of  Death. 


They  are  all  abroad  to-night 

And  are  breaking  the  hills  with  their  brood, 
And  the  birds  are  all  asleep 

Even  in  Plug  Street  Wood ! 


The  great  guns  of  England,  they  listen  mile  on  mile 
To  the  boasts  of  a  broken   War-Lord;  they  lift  their 
throats  and  smile ; 
But  the  old  woods  are  fallen 
For  a  while. 


The  old  woods  are  fallen ;  yet  will  they  come  again, 
They  will  come  back  some  springtime  with  the  warm 
winds  and  the   rain 
For  Xature  guardeth  her  children 

Xever  in  vain. 
i68- 


jMODERX  BRITISH  VERSE 

They  will  come  back  some  season ;  it  may  be  a  hundred 

years: 
It  is  all  one  to  Xature  with  the  centuries  that  are  hers; 
She  shall   bring  back   her  children 
And  dry  all  their  tears. 

liut   the   tears   of   a   would-be   War-Lord   shall  never 

cease  to  flow. 
He  shall  weep  for  the  poisoned  armies  whenever  the 
gas-winds  blow. 
He  shall  always  weep   for  his  widows, 
And  all  Hell  shall  know. 

The   tears   of   a   pitiless   Kaiser    shallow   they'll   flow 

and  wide, 
Wide  as  the  desolation  made  by  his  silly  pride 
When  he  slaughtered  a  little  people 
To  stab  France  in  her  side. 

Over  the  ragged  cinders  they  shall  flow  on  and  on 
With  the   listless   falling  of  streams  that  find  not  ob- 
livion, 
I*or  ages  and  ages  of  years 
Till  the  last  star  is  gone. 


TV 

I   met   with   Death   in   his  country. 

With  his  .scythe  anfl  his  hollow  eye, 
Walking  the  roads  of  I'clgium. 

I   Inoked   and  he  passed  me  by. 


169 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Since  he  passed  me  by  in  Plug  Street, 

In  the  wood  of  the  evil  name, 
I  shall  not  now  lie  with  the  heroes, 

I  shall  not  fare  their  fame, 

I  shall  never  be  as  they  are. 

A  name  in  the  lands  of  the  Free, 
Since  I  looked  on  Death  in   Flanders 

And  he  did  not  look  at  me. 

Lord  Diinsany 


1 10  It's  a  Queer  Time 


I 


T'S  hard  to  know  if  you're  alive  or  dead 
When  steel  and  fire  go  roaring  through  your  head. 


One  moment  you'll  be  crouching  at  your  gun 
Traversing,  mowing  heaps  down  half  in  fun: 
The  next,  you  choke  and  clutch  at  your  right  breast  — 
No  time  to  think  —  leave  all  —  and  off  you  go  .  .  . 
To  Treasure  Island  where  the  spice  winds  blow, 
To  lovely  groves  of  mango,  quince  and  lime? 
Breathe  no  good-bye,  but  ho,  for  the  Red  West ! 
It's  a  queer  time. 

You're  charging  madly  at  them  yelling  "  Fag !  " 
When  somehow  something  gives  and  your   feet  drag. 
You  fall  and  strike  your  head ;  yet  feel  no  pain 
And  find  .  .  .  you're  digging  tunnels  through  the  hay 
In  the  Big  Barn,  'cause  it's  a   rainy  day. 
Oh  springy  hay,  and  lovely  beams  to  climb ! 


MODERN  BRITISH  \ERSE 

You're  back  in  the  old  sailor  suit  again. 
It's  a  queer  time. 

Or  you'll  be  dozing  safe  in  your  dug-out  — 
A  great  roar  —  the  trench  shakes  and  falls  about  — 
You're  struggling,  gasping,  struggling,  then  .  .  .  hullo! 
Elsie  comes  tripping  gaily  down  the  trench. 
Hanky  to  nose  —  that  lyddite  makes  a  stench  — 
Getting  her  pinafore  all  over  grime. 
Funny  !  because  she  died  ten  years  ago ! 
It's  a  queer  time. 

The  trouble  is,  things  happen  much  too  quick ; 
Up  jump  the  Boches,  rifles  thump  and  click. 
You  stagger,  and  the  whole  scene  fades  away : 
Even  good  Christians  don't  like  passing  straight 
From  Tipperary  or  their  Hymn  of  Hate 
To  Alleluiah-chanting,  and  the  chime 
Of  golden  harps  .  .  .  and  .  .  .   I'm  not  well  to-day  .  .  . 
It's  a  queer  time. 

Robert  Graves 


TIT  Back 

THEY   ask   me   where   I've  been, 
And  what  I've  done  and  seen. 
But  what  can  1  reply 
Who   know   it   wasn't    I. 
But    .some    one    just    like-    me, 
Who  went  across  the  sea 
And   with    my   licaf!    anri   hands 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Killed   men  in    foreign   lands  .  .  . 
Though    T   must   hear   the   blame 
Because  he  bore  my   name. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


112  The  Return 

HE  went,  and  he  was  gay  to  go: 
And  I  smiled  on  him  as  he  went. 
My  son — 'twas  well  he  couldn't  know 
My  darkest  dread,  nor  what  it  meant  — 

Just    what    it    meant    to    smile    and    smile 
And   let   my   son   go   cheerily  — 
My  son  .  .  .  and  wondering  all  the  while 
What  stranger  would  come  back  to  me. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


iij       To  an  Officer  in  Regent  Street 

LIKE  some  lean  ghost  who  for  a  little  space 
Looks  on  the  world  again,  and  the  clear  skies, 
Or  mariner  that   from  the  sea  doth   rise 
In  vain,  to  find  another  in  his  place. 
You  walk  with  shades  of  death  on  your  brown   face 
And  look  upon  the   street  with   dead   men's  eyes. 

Fresh  women  throng  beside  you  in  the  street 
And  painted  women :  but  they  seek  in  vain 
172 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

To  catch  those  haunted  eyes,  or  turn  again 
From  their  slow  course  toward  waiting  death  your  feet. 
Vou  must  pass  lonely,  on  whose  brow  there  meet 
Abel's  sharp  anguish,  and  the  curse  of  Cain. 

Lucy  Hiui'hiiis 


114  To  Germany 

YOU  are  blind  like  us.     Your  hurt  no  man  designed. 
And  no  man  claimed  the  conquest  of  your  land. 
But,  gropers  l)0th  through  fields  of  thought  confined. 
We  stumble  and  we  do  not  understand. 
You  only  saw  your  future  bigly  planned. 
And  we,  the  tapering  paths  of  our  own   mind. 
And    in   each   other's   doarest    ways    we   stand. 
And  hiss  and  hate.     And   the  blind  fight   the  blind. 

When  it  is  peace,  then  we  may  view  again 
With   new-won   eyes   each   other's   truer    form, 
And  wonder.     Grown  more  loving-kind  and  warm, 
We'll  grasp  firm  hands  and  laugh  at  the  old  pain, 
When  it  is  peace.     But.  until  iieaco  the  storm. 
The  darkness,  and  the  tlnuKkr  and  the  rain. 

Charles  Hamilton  Sorlcx 


1 1  f^  The  Rain  how 


I 


W.\T('II    the  uiiitc-  (l.iwn  gk-am. 
To  the  thunder  of  guns. 
I  hear  the  hot  shells  scream 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Through  skies  as  sweet  as  a  dream 
Where  the  silver  dawn-break  runs. 

And  stabbing  of  light 

Scorches  the  virginal  white. 
But  I   feel  in  my  being  the  old,  high,  sanctified  thrill. 
And  I  thank  the  gods  that  the  dawn  is  beautiful  still. 

From  death  that  hurtles  by 

I  crouch  in  the  trench  day-long. 
But  up  to  a  cloudless  sky 
From  the  ground  where  our  dead  men  lie 

A  brown  lark  soars  in  song. 
Through  the  tortured  air, 
Rent  by  shrapnel's  flare, 
Over  the  troubleless  dead  he  carols  his  fill. 
And  I  thank  the  gods  that  the  birds  are  beautiful  still. 

Where  the  parapet  is  low 
And  level  with  the  eye 
Poppies  and  cornflowers  grow 
And  the  corn  sways  to  and  fro 
In  a  pattern  against  the  sky. 
The  gold  stalks  hide 
Bodies  of  men  who  died 
Charging  at  dawn  through  the  dew  to  be  killed  or  to 

kill. 
I   thank   the  gods  that   the   flowers  are  beautiful   still. 

When   night    falls   dark   we   creep 

In  silence  to  our  dead. 
We  dig  a  few  feet  deep 
And  leave  them  there  to  sleep  — 
1/4 


MODERN  BRITISH   VERSE 

But  blood  at  night  is  red. 

Yea,  even  at  night, 

And  a  dead, man's  face  is  white. 
And  I  dry  my  hands,  that  are  also  trained  to  kill, 
And  I  look  at  the  stars  —  for  the  stars  are  beautiful 

still. 

Leslie  Coitlson 


1 16      Discharged  —  Totally  Disabled 

SO  death   was   cheated  of  you!     Here  you   lie 
In  your  own  place  beside  me :  you  did  not  die  ! 
I  must  repeat  it.  learn  this  truth  by  heart: 
You  did  not  die !     ^'ou  did  not  die !     No  i)art 
Of  you  is  dead!     O,  sleep,  my  darling,  sleep: 
You   are   at   home,   you   must   not   hear   me   weep. 
When  I  have  learned  my  lesson  I  shall  not  cry  — 
You  did  not  die !     You  did  not,  did  not  die ! 
I  will  not  gull  myself.     Til  hold  the  light 
Closer,  that  I  may  see  each  ugly  trace 
Death  made  in  missing  you :  he  clawed  your  face 
Most  hideously  of  all,  because  he  knew 
I,  his  foe,  loved  its  beauty:  blew 
Blood  in  your  eyes,  seared  the  lids  black  and  l);ir(.' 
Branded   your  brows  —  my   blessing   rested  there - 
Then  as  a  treacherous  coward,  beaten,  afraid. 
Lunges  to  mark  his  conqueror,  lu-  laid 
His   twisted    seal   upon    your    lip>    and   fled. 
Harried  by  love  and  me  ! 

O  piteous  head  ! 
O  bloodshot,  staring  eves!     <)  branded  brow, 

175 


THE  BOOK  OF 

O  tortured  lips,  how  should  I  know  you  now? 

No  feature  is  the  same,  no  look,  no  sign 

Of  what  I  knew  is  left  to  prove  you- mine. 

You  cannot  smile !      That  was  death's  ugliest  blow ! 

You  cannot  smile !     The  lips  I  used  to  know 

Smiled  in  their  sleep  for  me;  they  laughed  all  day 

For  every  changing  thought  a  difYerent  way 

Of  smiling  for  my  joy,  but  they  smiled  best 

In  sleep,  against  my  heart,  kissed  into  rest. 

And  now  you  cannot  smile,  all  hacked  awry, 

0  warm,  gay  lips  —  and  yet  you  did  not  die ! 

Beaten,  death  !     You  are  beaten  !     Though  I  see 
This  mask  of  him  you  have  returned  to  me, 
Though  every  wound  gapes  by  this  flickering  light, 

1  have  another  lamp !     Another  sight ! 
His  spirit  lives,  and  all  his  beauty  lives! 
You  cannot   pilfer  in  my  soul !     Love  gives 
His  gift  immortally!     Not  time's  decay. 
Nor  violence,  nor  thou  can  take  away 
Beauty  made  mine  by  love !     Even  now  I  find 
His  living  beauty  flaming  in  my  mind, 
Burning  out  all  your  scars,  old  foe,  and  here, 
Here  on  the  pillow  smiles  serenely  clear 

His  own  familiar  face.     The  mask's  a  lie! 
Nothing  of  him  is  dead !     ?Ie  cannot  die. 

Irene  Rutherford  McLeod 


176 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


///  To  a  Bull-Dog 

[JV.  H.  S..  Capt.  {Acting  Major]  R.  F.  A.;  killed 
April  12,  19I/) 

WE  shan't  see  Willy  any  more,  Mamie, 
He  won't  be  coming  any  more: 
lie  came  back  once  and  again  and  again, 
But  he  won't  get  leave  any  more. 

We  looked  from  the  window  and  there  was  his  cab, 

And  we  ran  downstairs  like  a  streak. 
And  he  said.  "  Hullo,  you  bad  dog,"  and  you  crouched 
to  the  floor. 

Paralysed  to  hear  him  speak. 

And  then  let  tly  at  his  face  and  his  chest 

Till  I  had  to  hold  you  down. 
While  he  took  off  his  cap  and  his  gloves  and  his  coat, 

And  his  bag  and  his  thonged  Sam  Browne. 

We    went    upstairs   to   the   studio. 

The  three  of  us,  just  as  of  old. 
And  you  lay  down  and  I   sat  and  talked  to  him 

As   round  the   room   he   strolled. 

Here  in  the  room  where,  years  ago 

I'.cfore  the  old  life  stopped. 
He  worked  all  day  with  his  slippers  and  his  pipe, 

He   would    pick    up   the   threads   he'd    dropi)ed. 

177 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Fondling  all  the  drawings  he  had  left  behind, 

Glad  to  find  them  all  still  the  same, 
And  opening  the  cupboards  to' look  at  his  belongings 

.  .  .  Every  time  he  came. 

But  now  I  know  what  a  dog  doesn't  know. 

Though  you'll  thrust  your  head  on  my  knee,    . 
And  try  to  draw  me  from  the  absent-mindedness 

That  you  find  so  dull  in  me. 

-Vnd  all  your  life  you  will  never  know 
What  I  wouldn't  tell  you  even  if  I  could, 

That  the  last  time  we  waved  him  away 
Willy  went  for  good. 

But  sometimes  as  you  li^  on  the  hearthrug 

Sleeping  in  the  warmth  of  the  stove, 
Even  through  your  muddled  old  canine  brain 

Shapes  from  the  i)ast  may  rove. 

You'll  scarcely  remember,  even   in  a  dream. 

How  we  brought  home  a  silly  little  pup, 
With  a  big  square  head  and  little  crooked  legs 

That  could  scarcely  bear  him  up. 

But  your  tail  will  tap  at  the  memory 
Of  a  man  whose  friend  you  were. 
Who  was  always  kind  though  he  called  you  a  naughty 
dog 
When  he  found  you  on  his  chair ; 
.78 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Who'd  make  you  face  a  reproving  finger 

And  solemnly  lecture  you 
Till  your  head  hung  downwards  and  you  looked  very 
sheci)ish 

And  you'll  dream  of  your  triumphs  too, 

Of  summer  evening  chases   in   the  garden 
When  you  dodged  us  all  about  with  a  bone : 

We'  were  three  boys,  and  you  were  the  cleverest, 
But  now  we're  two  alone. 

When  summer  comes  again. 

And  the  long  sunsets  fade. 
We  shall  have  to  go  on  playing  the   feeble  game   for 
two 

That   since  the   war   we've   played. 

And  though  you  run  ex])cctant  as  you  always  do 

To  the  uniforms  we  meet. 
You'll  never  find  Willy  among  all  the  soldiers 

In  even  the  longest  street. 

Xor    in    any    crowd;    yet,    strange    and    hitler    lliought. 

Even  now  were  the  old  words  said, 
If  I  tried  the  old  trick  and  said  'Where's  Willy?' 

^'ou  would  quiver  and  lift  your  head. 

.\nd  your  brown  eyes  would  look  to  ask  if  I  was  serious. 

And   wait    for  the   word  to  spring. 
.Sleep  undisturbed:   I  shan't  say  lluil  again. 

You    innocent   old   thing. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

I  must  sit,  not  speaking,  on  the  sofa. 

While  you  lie  asleep  on  the  floor; 
For  he's  suffered  a  thing  that  dogs  couldn't  dream  of, 

And  he  won't  be  coming  here  any  more. 

/.  C.  Squire 


ii8  When  It's  Over 

*'\7'0UNG  soldier,  what  will  you  be 

A      When  it's  all  over?" 
"  I  shall  get  out  and  across  the  sea, 
Where  land's  cheap  and  a  man  can  thrive. 
I  shall  make  money.     Perhaps  I'll  wive 
In  a  place  where  there's  room  for  a  family, 
I'm  a  bit  of  a  rover." 

"  Young  soldier,  what  will  you  be 

At  the  last  'Dismiss'?'' 
"  Bucked  to  get  back  to  old  Leicester  Square, 
Where  there's  good  champagne  and  a  glad  winking 
And  no  more  '  Veery  Lights  '  damnably  blinking 
Their  weary,  dreary,  white-eyed  stare. 

I'll  be  out  of  this." 

"  Young  soldier,  what  will  you  be 

When  they  sign  the  peace?" 
"  Blowed  if  I  know;  perhaps  I  shall  stick  it. 
The  job's  all  right  if  you  take  it  steady. 
After  all,  somebody's  got  to  be  ready. 
And  tons  of  the  blighters  '11  get  their  ticket. 

Wars  don't  cease." 

1 80 


MODERN'  BRITISH  VERSE 

"  Young  soldier,  what  will  you  be 

At  the  day's  end  ?  " 
"  Tired's  what  I'll  be.     I  shall  lie  on  the  beach 
Of  a  shore  where  the  rippling  waves  just  sigh, 
And  listen  and  dream  and  sleep  and  lie 
Forgetting  what  I've  had  to  learn  and  teach 

And  attack  and  defend." 

"  Young  soldier,  what  will  you  be 

When  you're  next  a-bed?" 
"  God  knows  what :  but  it  doesn't  matter, 
For  whenever  I  think,  I  always  remember 
The   Belgians  massacred  that  September, 
And   England's   pledge  — and   the    rest    seems   chatter. 

What  if  I  am  dead?  " 

"  Young  soldier,  what  will  you  be 

When  it's  all  done?  " 
"  I  shall  come  back  and  live  alone 
On  an   I-jiglish  farm  in  the  Sussex  Weald, 
Where  the  wounds  in  my  mind  will  be  slowly  sealed. 
And  the  graves  in  my  heart  will  be  overgrown; 

And  I'll  sit  in  the  sun." 

'■  ^'oung  soldier,   what   will  you  be 

At  the  ■  Last  i'ost  '?  " 
"  Cold,  cold  in  the  tender  earth. 
A  cold  body  in   foreign  soil ; 
FUit  a  happy  spirit  fate  can't  s\n)\\. 
And  an   extra  note   in   the  blackbird's  mirth 
I'Vom    a    khaki    ghost." 

Mux  rio7i'»i(in 
iHi 


THE  BOOK  OF 


Up  In  Flanders  Fields 

IN   Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place,  and  in  the  sky, 
The   larks,   still    bravely    singing,   fly. 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  dead;  short  days  ago 

Wc  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 

Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe ! 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 

The  torch :  be  yours  to  hold  it  high  ! 

If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die. 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 

In  Flanders  fields. 

John  McCroc 


120        The  Old  Houses  of  Flanders 

THE  old  houses  of  Flanders, 
They   watch   by  the   high   cathedrals; 
They  overtop  the  high  town-halls; 
They  have  eyes,  mournful,  tolerant  and   sardonic,   for 
the  ways  of  men 
182 


MODERN'  BRITISH   VERSE 

In   the   high,   white   tiled   gables. 

The  rain  and  the  night  have  settled  down  on  Flanders; 

It  is  all  wet  darkness;  you  can  see  nothing. 

Then  tiiuse  old  eyes,  mournful,  tolerant  and  sardonic. 

Look  at  great,  sudden,  red  lights. 

Look  upon  the  shades  of  the  cathedrals; 

And   the  golden   rods   of  the   illuminated   rain. 

For    a    second  .  .  . 

.\nd  those  old  eyes. 

\'ery  old  eyes  that  have  watched  the  ways  of  men  for 
many  generations. 

Close  for  ever. 

The  high,  white  shoulders  of  the  gables 

Slouch  together  for  a  consultation. 

Slant  drunkenly  over  in  the  lea  of  the  flaming  cathe- 
drals. 

They  are  no  more,  the  old  houses  of  Flanders. 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer 


!?T  Pic-nic 

WV.  lay  and  ate  sweet  hurt-berries 
In   the  bracken  of   Hurt   Wood. 
IJke  a  quire  of  singers  singing  low 
The   rlnrk    pines   stood. 

Mehind   us  climbed   the   Surrey   hills. 
Wild,  wild  in  greenery: 


THE  BOOK  OF 

At  our  feet  the  downs  of  Sussex  broke 
To  an   unseen   sea. 

And  life  was  bound  in  a  still  ring 
Drowsy,  and  quiet  and  sweet  .  .  . 

When   heavily  up   the   south-east   wind 
The  great  guns  beat. 

We  did  not  wince,  we  did  not  weep, 

We  did  not  curse  or  pray ; 
We  drowsily  heard,  and  some  one  said 

-*'  They    sound    clear    to-day." 

We  did  not  shake  with  pity  and  pain, 

Or  sicken  and  blanch  white. 
We  said:     "If  the  wind's   from  over  there 

There'll   be   rain   to-night." 

Once  pity  we  knew,  and  rage  we  knew, 

And  pain   we  knew,  too  well. 
As  we  stared  and  peered  dizzily 

Through  the  gates  of  Hell. 

But   now  Hell's  gates  are  an  old  tale; 

Remote  the  anguish  seems ; 
The  guns  are  muffled  and  far  away. 

Dreams  within  dreams. 

And  far  and  far  are  Flanders  mud. 

And  the  pain  of  Picardy; 
And  the  blood  that  runs  there  runs  beyond 

The  wide  waste  sea. 
184 


MODERN'  BRITISH  VERSE 

We  are  shut  about  by  guarding  walls: 

(We  have  built  them  lest  we  run 
Mad  from  dreaming  of  naked  fear 

And  of  black  things  done.) 

We  are   ringed  all   round  by  guarding  walls, 

So  high,  they  shut  the  view, 
Not   all   the   guns   that    shatter   the   world 

Can  quite   break  through. 

Oh  guns  of  France,  oh  guns  of  France. 

Be  still,  you  crash  in  vain  .  .  . 
Heavily  up  the  south  wind  throb 

Dull  dreams  of  pain  .  .  . 

Be  still,  be  still,  south  wind,  lest  your 
Blowing  should  bring  the  rain  .  .  . 

We'll  lie  very  quiet  on  Hurt  hill. 
And  sleep  once  again. 

Oh,   we'll   lie  quite   still,   nor   listen   nor  look, 
While  the  earth's  bounds  reel  and  shake. 

Lest,  battered  too  long,  our  walls  and  we 
Should  break  .  .  .  should  break  .  .  . 

Rose  Macaulay 


122  The  Pyiufi  rat  riot 

DAY  lireaks  on  i^ngland  down  thr  Kentish  hills, 
Singing    in    the    silence   of    the    meadow- footing 
rills. 
Day  of  my  dreams,  O  day  ! 


THE  BOOK  OF 

I  saw  them  march   I'rom   Dover,  long  ago, 
With  a  silver  cross  before  them,  singing  low, 
Monks  of  Rome  from  their  home  where  the  blue  seas 
break  in  foam, 
Augustine  with  his  feet  of  snow. 

Noon  strikes  on  England,  noon  on  Oxford  town, 

—  Beauty    she    was    statue    cold  —  there's    blood    upon 

her  gown : 
Noon   of  my  dreams,   O   noon  ! 

Proud  and  godly  kings  had  built  her,  long  ago, 
With  her  towers  and  tombs  and  statues  all  arow. 
With  her  fair  and  floral  air  and  the  love  that  lingers 
there. 
And  the  streets  where  the  great  men  go. 

Evening  on  the  olden,  the  golden  sea  of  Wales, 

When  the  first  star  shivers  and  the  last  waves  pales : 

O  evening  dreams  ! 

There's  a  house  that  Britons  walked  in,  long  ago, 
Where  now  the  springs  of  ocean  fall  and  flow. 

And  the  dead  robed  in  red  and  sea-lilies  overhead 
Sway  when   the   long  winds   blow. 

Sleep  not.  my  country:  though  night  is  here,  afar 
Your  children  of  the  morning  are  clamorous  for  war: 
Fire  in  the  night,  O  dreams ! 

Though  she  send  you  as  she  sent  you,  long  ago. 
South  to  desert,  east  to  ocean,  west  to  snow. 
West  of  these  out  to  seas  colder  than  the  Hebrides  I 
must  go 
i86 


MOIJKRX    liKlTlSH    \  liKSK 

Where  the  fleet  of  stars  is  anchored,  and  the  young 
Star-captains  glow. 

James  Elro\  Flecker 


127,  I^cpaiito 

WHITE  foimts  falling  in  the  Courts  of  the  sun, 
And  the  Soldan  of  Byzantium  is  smiling  as  they 

run ; 
There  is  laughter  like  the  fountains  in  the  face  of  all 

men   feared, 
It  stirs  the  forest  darkness,  the  darkness  of  his  beard. 
It  curls  the  blood-red  crescent,  the  crescent  of  his  lips. 
[•"or  the  inmost  sea  of  all  the  earth  is  shaken  with  his 

ships. 
They  have  dared  the   white  republics  up  the  capes  of 

Italy. 
They  have  dashed  the  Adriatic  round  the  Lion  of  the 

Sea, 
.\nd  the  Poi)e  has  cast  his  arms  abroad  for  agony  and 

loss, 
And  called  the  kings  of  Christendom  for  swords  about 

the  Cross. 
The  cold  queen  of  England  is  looking  in  the  glass; 
The  .shadow  of  the  Valois  is  yawning  at  the  Mass; 
From  evening  isles  fantastical  rings  faint  the  Spanish 

And  the    Lord   upon   the   rjoldcn    Horn    is   laughing   in 

the  sun. 
Dim  drums  throbbing,  in  tbr  lulls  halt'  In-.-ird, 

187 


THE  BOOK  OF 

\\'here  only  on  a  nameless  throne  a  crownless  prince 

has  stirred, 
Where,  risen   from  a  douhtful  seat  and  half  attainted 

stall, 
The   last  knight   of   Europe   takes   weapons    from   the 

wall, 
The  last  and  lingering  troubadour  to,  whom  the  bird 

has  sung, 
That  once  went  singing  southward  when  all  the  world 

was  young. 
In  that  enormous  silence,  tiny  and  unafraid. 
Comes    up    along    a    winding    road    the    noise    of    the 

Crusade. 
Strong  gongs  groaning  as  the  guns  boom  far, 
Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war. 
Stiff  flags  staining  in  the  night-blasts  cold 
In  the  gloom  black-purple,  in  the  glint  old  gold. 
Torchlight  crimson  on  the  copper  kettle-drums, 
Then  the  tuckets,  then  the  trumpets,  then  the  cannon, 

and  he  comes. 
Don  John  laughing  in  the  brave  beard  curled, 
Spurning  of   his   stirrups   like   the   thrones   of   all   the 

world, 
Holding  his  head  up  for  a  flag  of  all  the  free. 
Love-light  of  Spain  —  hurrah! 
Death-light  of  Africa! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  riding  to  the  sea. 


Mahound  is  in  his  paradise  above  the  evening  star, 
{Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war) 
i88 


MODERN  BRITISH  \  ERSE 

He    moves    a    mighty    turlnin   on    tlic    timeless    houri's 

knees, 
His  turban  that  is  woven  of  the  sunsets  and  the  seas. 
He  shakes  the  peacock  gardens  as  he   rises   from  his 

ease, 
And  he  strides  among  the  tree-tops  and  is  taller  than 

the  trees. 
And  his  voice  through  all  the  garden  is  a  thunder  sent 

to  bring 
Black  AzracI  and  Ariel  and  Amnion  on  the  wing. 
Giants  and  the  Genii. 
Multiplex  of  wing  and  eye. 
Whose  strong  obedience  broke  the  sky 
When    Solomon   was  king. 


They  rush  in  red  and  purple  from  the  red  clouds  of  the 

morn. 
From  temples  where  the  yellow  gods  shut  up  their  eyes 

in  scorn 
They  rise  in  green  robes  roaring  fruni  the  green  hells 

of  the  sea 
Where  fallen  skies  and  evil  hues  and  eyeless  creatures 

be: 
On    them    the    sea-valves    cluster    and    the    grey    sea- 
forests  curl, 
Splashed  with  a   splendid  sickness,  the  sickness  of  the 

f)earl ; 
They  swell  in  sapphire  smoke  out  of  the  blue  cracks  of 

the  ground, — 
They   gather   and    they    wonder    and    give    worship   to 

Mahound. 


'II  IE  BOOK  OF 

Ami    he    saitli.    "  Break    uj)    the    mountains    wlicre    tin- 

hermit-folk  can  hide. 
And   sift  the   red   and  silver  sands   lest   bone  of  saint 

abide, 
And  chase  the  Giaours  flying  night  and  day,  not  giving 

rest, 
For  that  which  was  our  trouble  conies  again  out  of  the 

west. 
We  have  set  the  seal  of  Solomon  on  all  things  under 

sun, 
Of  knowledge  and  of  sorrow  and  endurance  of  things 

done, 
But    a    noise    is    in    the    mountains,    in    the    mountains. 

and  I  know 
The  voice  that  shook  our  ])alaccs  —  four  hundred  years 

ago: 
It  is  he  that  saith  not  '  Kismet  ' ;   it  is  he  that   knows 

not  Fate ; 
It  is  Richard,  it  is  Raymond,  it  is  Godfrey  in  the  gate! 
It   is   he   whose   loss   is   laughter   when   he   counts   the 

wager  worth, 
Put  down  your  feet  upon  him,  that  our  peace  be  on  the 

earth." 
For  he  heard  drums  groaning  and  he  heard  guns  jar. 
{Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war.) 
Sudden  and  still  —  hurrah  ! 
Bolt   from  Iberia ! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  gone  by  Alcalar. 

St.  Michael's  on  his  Mountain  in  the  sea-roads  of  the 
north 
190 


MODERN   BRITISH   VERSE 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  girt  and  going  forth.) 

Where  the  grey  seas  glitter  and  the  sharp  tides  shift 

And  the  sea-folk  labor  and  the  red  sails  lift. 

He  shakes  his  lance  of  iron  and  he  claps  his  wings  of 
stone : 

The  noise  is  gone  through  Xorniandy ;  the  noise  is  gone 
alone ; 

The  North  is  full  of  tangled  things  and  texts  and  ach- 
ing eyes 

And  dead  is  all  the  innocence  of  anger  and  surprise. 

And    Christian    killeth    Christian    in    a    narrow    dusty 
room. 

And  Christian  dreadeth  Christ  that  liatli  a  newer  face 
of  doom. 

And  Christian  hateth  Mary  that  God  kissed  in  (ialilee. 

But  Don  John  of  Austria  is   riding  to  the  sea. 

Don   John   calling   through    the    l^last    and   the    eclipse 

Crying  with  the  trumpet,  with  the  trumpet  of  his  lips. 

Trumpet  that  sayeth  ha  ! 
Domino  gloria ! 

Don  John  of  Austria 

Is  .shouting  to  the  ships. 

King  Philip's   in   his   closet   with   the    I'leocc   about    his 

neck 
(Don  John  of  Austria  is  armed  upon  the  deck.) 
The  walls  are  himg  with  velvet  that  is  black  and  soft 

as  sin. 
.'\nd   little    dwarfs   creep   out    of    it    and    little   dwarfs 

creep  in. 
He  holds  a  crystal  phial  that  has  colours  like  the  nuuMi. 
He  touches,  and  it  tingles,  and  he  trembles  very  soon, 

191 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And  his   face  is  as  a   fungus  of  a  leprous  white  and 

grey 
Like  plants  in  the  high  houses  that  arc  shuttered  from 

the  day 
And  death  is  in  the  phial  and  the  end  of  noble  work. 
But  Don  John  of  Austria  has  fired  upon  the  Turk. 
Don  John's  hunting,  and  his  hounds  have  bayed  — 
Booms  away  past  Italy  the  rumour  of  his  raid. 
Gun  upon  gun,  ha  !  ha  ! 
( inn  upon  gun,  hurrah  ! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Has  loosed  the  cannonade. 


The  Pope  was  in  his  chapel  before  day  or  battle  broke, 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  hidden  in  the  smoke.) 

The  hidden  room  in  man's  house  where  God  sits  all 
the  year. 

The  secret  window  whence  the  world  looks  small  and 
very  dear. 

He  sees  as  in  a  mirror  on  the  monstrous  twilight  sea 

The  crescent  of  his  cruel  ships  whose  name  is  mystery ; 

They  fling  great  shadows  foe-wards,  making  Cross  and 
Castle  dark. 

They  veil  the  plumped  lions  on  the  galleys  of  St.  Mark ; 

And  above  the  ships  are  palaces  of  brown,  black- 
bearded  chiefs. 

And  below  the  ships  are  prisons  where  wiih  multitudi- 
nous griefs, 

Christian  captives  sick  and  sunless,  all  a  laboring  race 
repines 

Like  a  race  in  sunken  cities,  like  a  nation  in  the  mines. 
192 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

They  are  lost  like  slaves  that  sweat,  and  in  the  skies 

-    of  morning  hung 
The  stairways  of  the  tallest  gods  when  tyranny  was 

young. 
They  are  countless,  A-oiceless,  hopeless  as  those  fallen 

or  fleeing  on 
Before  the  high  Kings'  horses  in  the  granite  of  Baby- 
lon. 
And  many  a  one  grows  witless  in  his  quiet   room   in 

Hell  ' 
Where  a  yellow  face  looks  inward  through  the  lattice 

of  his  cell. 
And  he  finds  his  God  forgotten,  and  he  seeks  no  more 

a  sign  — 
(But  Don  John  of  Aiislria  has  burst  the  battle  line!) 
Don  John  pounding  from  the  slaughter-painted  poop, 
Purpling  all  the  ocean  like  a  bloody  pirate's  sloop. 
Scarlet  running  over  on  the  silvers  and  the  golds. 
Breaking  of  the  hatches  up  and  bursting  of  the  holds, 
Thronging  of  the  thousands  up  that  labor  under  sea 
White    for   bliss    and    lilind    for    sun   and    stunned    for 

liberty. 
V'ivat  His|)ania! 
Domino  Gloria! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Has  set  his  licojilc   free! 

Cervantes   on   his   galley   sets   the   sword   back    in   the 

sheath 
(Don  John  of  Austria  rides  homewani  ivith  a  ivreath.) 
And  he  sees  across  a  weary  land  a  straggling  road  in 

Spain, 

193 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Up  which  a  lean  and  foolish  knight  forever  rides  in 

vain, 
And  he  smiles,  but  not  as   Sultans  smile,  and  settles 

back  the  blade.  .  .  . 
{But    Don    John    of    Austria    rides    home    from    the 

Crusade.) 

Gilbert  K.  Chesterton 


124  I  am  the  Gilly  of  Christ 

I    AM    the   gilly   of   Christ. 
The  mate  of  Mary's  Son ; 
I  run  the  roads  at  seeding  time, 
And    when    the    harvest's   done. 

I  sleep  among  the  hills. 

The  heather  is  my  bed; 

I   dip  the  termon-well    for   drink, 

And  pull  the  sloe  for  bread. 

No  eye  has  ever  seen  me. 
But   shepherds  hear  me  pass, 
Singing  at   fall  of  even 
Along  the  shadowed  grass. 

The  beetle  is  my  bellman, 
The  meadow-fire  my  guide, 
The  bee  and  bat  my  ambling  nags 
When  I  have  need  to  ride. 

All  know  me  only  the  Stranger, 
Who  sits  on  the  Saxon's  height; 
194 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

He  burned  the   bacach's  little   house 
On  last  Saint  Brigid's  Night. 

He  sups  off  silver  dishes, 
And  drinks  in  a  golden  horn, 
But  he  will  wake  a  wiser  man 
Upon  the  Judgment  Morn  ! 

I    am    the    (Hily    of    Christ, 
The  mate  of  Mary's  Son; 
I  run  the  roads  at  seeding  time, 
And  when  the  harvest's  done. 

The  seed  I  sow  is  lucky. 
The  corn  I  reap  is  red, 
And  whoso  smgs  the  (bill's  Kami 
Will   never  cry   for  bread 
Seosamh  MacCathmhanH  (Josrf^h  Cciiiipbcll) 


12^      Rc(j)ntm  Ccicloriiiii  I'mi  ratilur 

WIIK.N    our    five-angled    spears,    that    pierced    the 
world 
.\nd  drew  its  life-blood,   faint  Ijefore  the  wail 
Which  hems  its  secret  splendour  —  when  we  fall. 
Lance   broken,   banner   furled. 
Before  that  calm  invincible  defence 
Whereon  our  folly  hurled 
The  piteous  armies  of  intelligence    — 
Then,  oftcn-times.  we  know 
How  conquering  mercy  to  the  battle  field 

'95 


THE  BOOK  OF       - 

Comes  through  the  darkness,  freely  to  bestow 

'llic  prize  for  which  we  fought 

Not   knowing  what   we   sought, 

And  salve  the  wounds  of  those  who  would  not  yield. 

He  loves  the  valiant  foe;  he  comes  not  out  to  meet 

The  craven  soul  made  captive  of  its  fear: 

Not  these  the  victories  that  to  him  are  sweet ! 

But  the  impetuous  soldiery  of  truth, 

And  knighthood  of  the  intellectual  quest, 

Who  ask  not  for  his  ruth 

Nor  would  desire  his  rest : 

These  are  to  him  most  dear, 

And  shall  in  their  surrender  yet  prevail. 

Yea !  at  the  end  of  unrewarded  days, 

By  swift  and  secret  ways 

As  on  a  sudden  moonbeam  shining  clear, 

Soft  through  the  night  shall  slide  upon  their  gaze 

The  thrice-defended  vision  of  the  Grail : 

And  when  his  peace  hath  triumphed,  these  shall  be 

The  flower  of  his  celestial   chivalry. 

And   did  you   think,   he   saith 
As  to  and  fro  he  goes  the  trenches  through, 
My  heart  impregnable,  that  you  must  bring 
The   ballisters   of   faith 
Their  burning  bolts  to  fling. 
And  all   the  cunning  intricate   device 
Of  human  wit, 
One  little  breach  to  make 
That  so  you  might  attain  to  enter  it? 
Nay,  on  the  other  side 
196 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Love's  undefended  postern  is  set  wide: 
But  thus  it  is  I  woo 
My  dearest  sons,  that  an  ignoble  ease 
Shall   never   please. 
Nor  any  smooth  and  open  way  entice. 
Armed  would  I  have  them  come 
Against   the  mighty   bastions  of  their  home; 
Out  of  high  failure  win 
Their  way  within. 

And"  from  my  conquering  hand  their  birthright  take. 

Evelyn  Underhill 


126  Brother  Fidclis 

PASSING  to  Chapel  thro'  the  high  cloister'd  way, 
Brother  Fidclis  loitered  to  survey 
Far,  slumberous  fields  all  wrapt  in  still  moonlight 
Laid   plain,   thro"   ciiiscUcd   windows,   to   his   sight. 

The  Brother  dropt  his  hands  upon  the  stone 
Of  one  low  window.     Sepia  shadows,  thrown 
Across  the  i)avement,  made  the  light  more  clear 
Upon   his  tliouglilfu!    face;   no  shade   was  there, 

Tho'  Suffering's  heavy  hand  had  drawn  her  lines 
About  his  mouth;  and  near  his  eyes  were  signs 
Of  long  night   watchings  and  of   fastings  long  — 
Wherewith  he  trained  his  spirit  to  be  strong. 

Unknown  the  thoughts,  the  labour  and  the  pain  .  .  . 
Before  his  eyes  lay  but  the  tender  grain 

197 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Lovingly  gathered  in  that  quiet  patcli 

By  one  asleep  beneath  some  cottage  thatch. 

Beyond  the  fields  lay  London.     He  had  been 
There  once,  toiling  for  life  amid  the  mean 
Toil  of  the  streets;  and  then  had  drawn  aside 
From   worldly   lust,    vainglorious   days   and   pride. 

'Tvvas  better  so;  better  to  serve  the  Lord 
Continually,  than  share  Him  with  a  horde 
Of  other  gods.     He  had  gained  here,  apart. 
With  the  new  name,  Fidelis,  a  new  heart. 

He  stood  as  still  as  the  carved   Virgin   Maid 
Above  the  Chapel  door,  whose  Child  was  laid 
Against  her  breast.     .So  stood  Fidelis  there 
As  tho'  the  world  were  not,  nor  care  on  care. 

The  Chapel  bell  clanged   from  a  turret  high. 

The   Brother's  sober  Brethren  shuffled  by, 

Casting   strange   shapes   on   the   cold   pavement's    face. 

Fidelis,  woken,  turned  with  them  for  Grace 

Within   the   narrow  door,   passing   below 
The  Mother  Maid  who  smiled  to   see  them  go. 
The  praising  voices  died  along  the  grey 
Moonlighted  quiet  of  the  cloistered  way. 

Given   Upcott 


198 


MODERN  BRITISH  X'ERSE 


121  Tzco  Carols 


Flares  appiintcnint  in  terra  nostre 

VERY  still  was  all  the  land. 
Very  secret  was  the  hour : 
Darkness  as  a  <2;uar(l  did  stand 
When  the  Rose  broujjhi   forth   her  flower  — 
Rosa   sine  spina. 

Long  the  road  and  hard  the  pain. 

Chill  and  lowly  was  the  shed: 
See.   upon    the   straw   she's   lain  — 

Straw,  to  make  her  childing-hed ! 
/  irgo  et  recjina. 

(old  the  welcome,  sharp  the   smart: 

fiodhead  treads  the  hitter  way. 
<  )nly  in  the  lowly  heart 

Is  her  babe  brought  forth  to-day  — 
Gcnetrix  di'rina. 


11 
Ouinis  crcalura  inf^enilscil,  et  partnrit  nsifue  atlhin 

SILEXCI--  and  darkness!  land  and  sea 
Await  the  c«)ding  of  their  pain. 
Qui  est  in  coelis  now  shall  be 
One  with  the  world  he  made  again. 
Do  minus  tec  inn! 


THE  1;UUK  OF 

So  the  angels  say. 
So  may  it  be  alway  ! 

Poor  Earth,  that  hast  in  exile  long 

Borne  alien  gods,  thy  travail  cease! 
Lift  up,   lift   up,   the   mother's   song: 
Rex  natiis  est,  his  name  is  Peace. 
Dominiis  tecum! 
So  the  angels  says, 
So  may  it  be  alway ! 

Advcniat  rcginnii!  in  the  heart 

Love's  childing-bed  is  made  to-night. 
There  is  he  born  that  heals  thy  smart, 
Emmanuel,  the   Light  of  Light ! 
Dominus  tecum! 
So  the  angels  say. 
So  may  it  be  alway ! 

Evelyn   Underlain 

128  Triptych 

I. —  FIRST    PANEL:    THE    HILL 

ON  a  day  in  Maytime  mild 
Mary  sat  on  a  hill-top  with  her  child. 
(Overhead  in  the  calm  sky's  arching 
The   curled   white   clouds   went    slowly   marching  .  . 
But  underneath  the  blue  abyss 
All  was  stiller  than  water  is 
Leagues  under  the  surface  of  the  sea.) 
And  all  about  her  thick  and  free 
Blossomed  the  dear  familiar  flowers. 
200 


MODERN'  BRITISH  VERSE 

There,  while  her  boy  played  through  the  hours, 

And  the  high   sun   shook  gold  upon   her, 

Mary  plaited  a  garland  in  his  honour 

Who   should  be  the  King  of  Kings: 

And  when  'tis  done  this  song  she  sings. 

As  Jesus,  tired  and  happy,  rests 

Curled  in  the  hollow  of  her  breasts: 

"In  the  shadow  of  my  dress, 

Out  of  the   i-un 
And  his  fierce  caress. 

Sleep,  my  son. 

"  Soft  the  air  about  the  hill. 

Scented,  sunny,  clear,  and  still ; 

Below  in  the  woods  the  datYodil 

Nods,  and  the  shy  anemone 

Creeps  up  from  the  thicket  to  look  on  thee, 

And  ten  thousand  daisies  meet 

In  an  ocean  of  stars  about  thy  feet. 

"  Daisies  have  I  strung  for  thee, 

Darling  boy, 
Wee  white  blossoms  that  shall  be 
Dappled,  ah  !   rosily 
With  thy  blood. 
When  they  nail  thee  to  the  wood 
Cleft  from  out  the  crooked  tree. 

Can  it  be, 
Daisies  innocent  and  good, 
That   ye   star  black   calvary? 

20 1 


THE  BOOK  OF 

"  Buttercups  1  make  th\   crown, 

Darling  boy. 
(Lullaby,  O  lullaby!) 
Son  of  sorrow,  son  of  joy, 
Pain  and  Paradise  thou  art, 
Thou  that  sighcst  nestling  down 
In  my  breast,   over  my   heart 

That  is  a  lake 
Where  the  hidden  tear-drops  ache 

To  be  free. 
Till  mounting  upward   for  thy  sake 

Out  they  break, 
Down  they  plash  on  me  and  thee. 

"  And  Heaven  in  her  charity 
Drops  seven  tears  on  me  and  thee. 

"  This  thy  childhood's  crown, 

Flower  on  flower. 
Wear  thou  ni  thy  lullaby 
Till  thou  facest  the  soldiers'  frown 

In  thine  iron  hour, 
Till  the  thorn  they  crown  thee  by 

They  press  down : 
Ah,  the  sharp  points  in  my   heart ! 
Ah,   the  sword,  the  sudden   smart 
Flaying  me  as  'twere  a  flame ! 
Crowned  indeed,  my  son,  thou  art 
With  red  flowers  of  pain  and  shame ! 

"  Birds  and  butterflies  and  trees. 
And  the  long  hush  of  the  breeze 

202 


MODERX  BRITISH  VERSE 

Shimmering  over  the  silken  grass. 
What    wouldst   thou   have   more   than   these? 
In  the  stall  the  ox  and  ass 
Gazed  on   thee  with  tender  eyes; 
All  things  love  thee ;  yet  there  lies 
Some  hid  thing  in   thee  breeds   fear  — 
Brims  not  falls  thy  mother's  tear. 
Wherefore,  baby,  must  thou  go? 
Rose,  to  be  torn  in  sunder  so? 

Little  bonny  limbs.   little  bonny   face, 
My  lanil),  my  torment,  my  disgrace ! 

"  O  baby,  are  thine  eyelids  closed 
Faster  than  my  eyes  supposed? 
With   foxes  must  thy  bed  be  maken, 
A  beggar   with   beggars  must   thou  go, 
To  be  at  last  forsworn,  forsaken? 
And  bear  alone  thy  cross  also 
Anigh  to  the  foot  of  a  bare  hill? 
To   hang  gibbeted   and   abhorred, 
For  passers-by  to  wish  thee  ill  ? 
And  to  thrust  against  thy  will 

Through  thy  motluT's  bosom  the  sharpest  sword? 

"  O  baby,   l)reathing  so  quietly, 
Have  thou   mercy  upfin  me ! 

That   in   thy   madness 
On  thy  lonely  journey   farest; 
That  understandcst  not  nor  carcst 

For  me  and  my  sadness  ! 
Woe  indeed !  thou  dost  not  know 
Man  cometh  into  this  world  in  sorrow 

203 


THE  BOOK  OF 

To  spend  in  grief  to-night,  to-morrow 
In  sorrow  the  third  day  to  go ! 


"O  sleep,  dear  baby,  and,  heart,  sleep; 

Turn  to  thy  slumber,   golden,   deep, 

Of  present  possible  happiness. 

Let  drop  the  daisies  one  by  one 

Over  his  body  and  his  dress ; 

Afflicted  eyes,  see  but  thy  son 

Who  sleeps  secure  from  hurt,  from  harm, 

Clasped  to  my  breast,  closed  in  my  arm. 

Who   murmurs    as   the    flowers    by    the    faint    wind 
shaken, 
And,  putting   forth   sweet,   sleepy  hands. 
Feels  for  the  kisses  he  demands  .  .  . 
Slowly,   belov'd,   dost   thou   awaken. 
And  sure,  in  heaven  there  is  no  sign : 
It  is  not  true  that  thou  shalt  be  taken. 
Who  for  ever,  for  ever  art  mine,  art  mine  !  " 


Into  the  west  the  calm  white  sun 
Floated  and  sank.     The  day  was  done. 
Mary  returned,  and  as  she  went, 
Above  her,   in   the  firmament, 
The  stars,  that  are  the  flowers  of  God, 
Mirrored  the  flowery  earth  she  trod. 
Thus  bore  she  on  her  destined  child, 
And  while  she  wept,  behold !  he  smiled, 
And  stretched  his  arms  seeking  a  kiss 
Softly  she  kissed  him,  and  a  bliss, 
204 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Deeper  than  all  her  liunian  tears. 
Flooded  her  and  put  out  her  fears. 

Oxford,  Early  Spriny,  191 1. 


II. —  SECOND   AND   CENTRE   PANEL:   THE   TOWER 

It  was  deep  night,  and  over  Jerusalem's  low  roofs 
The    moon    floated,    drifting    through    high    vaporous 

woofs. 
The  moonlight  crept  and  glistened  silent,  solemn,  sweet, 
Over  dome  and  column,  up  empty,  endless  street ; 
In   the   closed,   scented  gardens   the    rose   loosed    from 

the  stem 
Her  white  showery  petals ;  none  regarded  them : 
The  starry  thicket  breathed  odours  to  the  sentinel  palm; 
Silence    possessed   the   city    like    a   soul   possessed   by 

calm. 

X(jt  a  si)ark  in  the  warren  undor  the  giant  night. 
Save  where  in  a  turret's  lantern  beamed  a  grave,  still 

light: 
There  in  the  topmo.st  cliami)er  a   gold-eyed  lamp  was 

lit  — 
Marvellous  lamp  in  darkness,  informing,  redeeming  it ! 
For,  set  in  that   tiny  chamber.   Jesus,   the  blessed   and 

doomed. 
Spoke  to  the  lone  aiJ<j.stles  as  light  to  men  entombed  ; 
And  spreading  his  hands  in  blessing,  as  one  soon  to 

be  dead. 
He  put  soft  enchantment  into  spare  wine  and  bread. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

The  hearts  of  the  disciples  were  broken  and   full  of 

tears, 
Because   their  lord,  the   spearless,  was   hedged  about 

with  spears ; 
And  in  his  face  the  sickness  of  departure  had  spread 

a    gloom. 
At  leaving  his  young   friends   friendless. 
They  could  not  forget  the  tomb. 
He   smiled   subduedly,   telling,    in   tones   soft   as   voice 

of  the  dove. 
The  endlessness  of  sorrow,  the  eternal  solace  of  love; 
And   lifting   the   earthly   tokens,    wine    and   sorrowful 

bread. 
He  bade  them  sup  and  remember  one  who  lived  and 

was  dead. 
And  they  could  not   restrain   their  weeping. 

But  one  rose  up  to  depart. 
Having  weakness  and  hate  of  weakness  raging  within 

his  heart. 
And  bowed  to  the  robed  assembly  whose  eyes  gleamed 

wet  in  the  light. 
Judas  arose  and  departed:  night  went  out  to  the  night. 


Then  Jesus  lifted  his  voice  like  a  fountain  in  an  ocean 

of  tears, 
And   comforted  his   disciples   and  calmed   and  allayed 

their  fears. 
But  Judas  wound  down  the  turret,  creeping  from  floor 

to  floor. 
And  would  fly^  but  one  leaning,  weeping,  barred  him 

beside  the  door. 
206 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

And  he  knew  her  by  her  ruddy  garment  and  two  yet- 
watching  men : 

Mary  of  Seven  Evils,  Mary  Magdalen. 

And  he  was  frighted  at  her.     She  sighed:     "  I  dreamed 
him  dead. 

W'e  sell  the  body  for  silver  .  .  ." 

Then  Judas  cried  out  and  fled 

Forth  into  the  night !  .  .  .  The  moon  had  begun  to  set; 

A  drear,  deft  wind  went  sifting,  setting  the  dust  afret ; 

Into  the  heart  of  the  city  Judas  ran  on  and  prayed 

To  stern  Jeliovah  lest  his  deed  make  him  afraid. 

But  in  the  tiny  lantern,  hanging  as  if  on  air, 

The  disciples  sat  unspeaking.     Amaze  and  peace  were 

there. 
For   his  voice,   mure   lo\ely   than   song  of   all   earthly 

birds, 
In    accents   humble   and   happy    spoke   slow,    consoling 

words. 

Thus  Jesus  discoursed,  and  was  silent,  sitting  upright, 

and  soon 
Past  the  casement  behind  him  sl.mted  the  sinking  mnon; 
And,    rising    for    Olivtt,    ail    stared,    i)etween    love    and 

drea<I. 
.Seeing  the  torrid  moon  ;i   ruddy  iialo  behind  liis  he.id. 

Grayshott,  July.  i'ji4. 

in. —  TIIIKI)    I'.WKI.:    TIIK    TKKE 

The  crooked  tree  creaked  as  its  loaded  bough  dipped 
.\nd   suddenly   jerked   uii.     The   roi)e   had    slipped, 

207 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And  hideously  Judas  fell,  and  all  the  grass 
Was  soused  and  reddened  where  he  was, 
And  the  tree  creaked  its  mirth  .  .  . 

Mid  the  hot  sky 
Appeared  immediate  dots  tiny  and  high, 
Till  downward  wound  in  batlike  herds 
Black,  monstrous,  gawky  birds. 
And,  narrowing  their  rustling  rings, 
Alit,   talons   foremost.     And   with   flat   wings 
Flapped  in  the  branches,  and  glared,  and  croaked  and 

croaked. 
While  no  compassionate  human  came  and  cloaked 
The  thing  that  stared  up  at  the  giddy  day 
With  pale  blue  eyeballs  and  wry-lipped  display 
Of  yellow  teeth  closed  on  the  l)lue,  bit  tongue. 
Overhead  the  light  in  silence  hung. 
And  fiercely  showed  the  sweaty,  knotted  hands 
Clutching  the  rope  about  the  swollen  glands  .  .  . 
And  the  birds  croaked  and  croaked,  evilly  eyeing 
The   thing  so   lying. 

Which  no  commiserate  pity  came  and  cloaked, 
But  which  soaked 
The  earth,  so  that  the  flies 
Sizzily  swung  over  its  winkless  eyes, 
And  in  a  crawling,  shiny,  busy  brood 
Blackened  the   sticky   blood. 
And  tickled  the  tongue-choked   mouth   that   sought  to 

cry 
I'itterly  and  beseechingly 
Against  the  judgment  of  th'  unflinching  sky. 


208 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

The  poor  dead,  lonely  thing  had  not  a  shroud 

From  that  still,  frightful  glare  until  a  cloud 

Of  darkness,  flowing  like  a  dye 

Over  the  edges  of  the  sky. 

Browned  and  put  out  the  silent  sun: 

A   ben i son 

Of  three  hours'   space. 

And  it  had  power 

To  put  a  shadow  into  that  thing's  face. 

And  th'  invisible  birds  fell  silent  by  its  grace. 

Thus  Judas  lay  in  shadow  and  all   was  still. 

Then  faint  light,  like  water,  began  again  to  fill 

The  sky.  and  a  whisper  —  came  it  from  the  grass. 

Whispering  dry  and  sparse, 

Or  from  the  air  beyond  the  neighbouring  hill."  — 

Ebbed,  as  a  spirit  on  a  sigh 

Passing  beyond  alarm: 

"  //  is  finished !  " 

.\nd  there  was  calm 

Under  the  emi)ty  tree  and  in  the  brigiilcning  sky. 

Robert   Xicliols 
Grayshott,  July.  1914. 


fj(j  Siuioii  llic  Cyrciicaii 

"  And  as  they  came  nut  they  jnund  a  man  of  Cyiene 
Simon  by  name;  him  they  com  fuelled  to  bear  his  cross.' 


T 


HIS  is  the  t;ilc-   fmni  lirst   to  last;  — 
Outside  Jcrusakni 

2CMJ 


THE  BOOK  OF 

I  saw  them  lead  a  prisoner  past 

With  thorns   for  diadem. 
Broken  and  weak  and  driven   fast 

He  fell  at  my  garment's  hem. 

There  stood  no  other  stranger  by 

On  me  they  laid  his  load. 
The  Cross  whereon  he  was  to  die 

I  bore  along  the  road, 
I  saw  him  nailed,  I  heard  him  cry 

Forsaken   of   his   God. 

Now  I  am  dead  as  well  as  he. 

And,  marvel  strange  to  tell. 
But  him  they  nailed  upon  the  tree 

Is  Lord  of   Heaven  and   tiell, 
And  judgeth  who  doth  wickedly, 

Rewardeth  who  doth  well. 

He  has  given  to  me  the  beacons  four, 

A  Cross  in  the  southern  sky, 
In  token  that  his  Cross  I  bore 

In  his  extremity ; 
For  one  I  never  knew  before 

The  day  he  came  to  die. 

Lucy  Lyttelton 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


1^0  Birthright 

LORD  RAMESES  of  Egypt  sighed 
Because  a  summer  evening  passed; 
And  little  Ariadne  cried 

That  summer   fancy  fell  at  last 
To  dust ;  and  young  \' erona  died 
When  beauty's  hour  was  overcast. 

Theirs   was   the   l)itterness   we  know 
Because  the  clouds  of  hawthorn  keep 

So  short   a   state,   and  kisses   go 
To  tombs  unfathomably  deep, 

While  Ramescs  and  Romeo 
And  little  Ariadne  sleep. 

John  Drinkwater 


7?/  Harvest 

TiI(JL'(iH  the  long  seasons  seem  to  separate 
Sower  anrl  reaper  or  deeds  dreamed  and  done, 
Net  when  a  man  reaches  the  Ivory  Gate 
Labour   and   lift-   and    seed   and   corn   are  one. 

Because  thou  art  thr  doer  and  the  deed 

Because  thou  art  the  thinker  and  the  thought, 

Because  thou  art  the  hel|)er  and  the  nceil, 

And  the  cold  doubt  that  brings  all  things  to  iKjught. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Therefore  in  every  gracious  form  and  sluii)e 
The  world's  dear  open  secret  shalt  thou  find, 
I'roni  the  One  Beauty  there  is  no  escape 
Xor  from  the  sunshine  of  the  Eternal  mind. 

The  patient  labourer,  with  guesses  dim, 
Follows  this  wisdom  to  its  secret  goal. 
He  knows  all  deeds  and  dreams  exist  in  him, 
And  all  men's  God  in  every  human  soul. 

Eva  Gore-Booth 


132  The  Dark  Way 

ROUGHER  than  death  the  road  I  choose 
Yet  shall  my  feet  not  walk  astray, 
Though  dark,  my  way  I  shall  not  lose 
For  this  way  is  the  darkest  way. 

Set  but  a  limit  to  the  loss 

And  something  shall  at  last  abide, 

The   blood-stained   beams   that    formed  the   cross. 

The  thorns  tliat  crowned  the  crucified; 

But  who  shall  lose  all  things  in  One, 
Shut  out  from  Heaven  and  the  Pit 
Shall  lose  the  darkness  and  the  sun,  ' 
The  finite  and  the  infinite; 

And  who  shall  see  in  one  small  flower 
The  chariots  and  the  thrones  of  might 
212 


MODERN'  BRITISH  VERSE 

Shall  be  in  peril  from  that  hour 

Of  blindness  and  the  endless  night: 

And  who  shall  hear  in  one  short  name 

Apocalyptic  thunders  seven 

His  heart  shall  flicker  like  a  flame 

'Twixt   Hell's   gates   and   the   gates   of   Heaven. 

For  I   have   seen  your  body's  grace, 
The  miracle  of  the  flowering  rod. 
And  in  the  beauty  of  thy  face 
The  glory  of  the  face  of  God. 

And  I   have  heard  the  thunderous  roll 
Clamoured  from  heights  of  prophecy, 
^'our   splendid  name,   and   from   my   soul 
Uprose  the  clouds  of  minstrelsy. 

Now  I  have  chosen  in  the  dark 

The  desolate  way  to  walk  alone. 

Vet  strive  to  keep  alive  one  spark 

C)i  your  known  grace  and   grace  unknown; 

And  when   1   leave  you  lest  my  love 
Should  seal  your  si)irit's  ark  with  clay 
Spread  your  bright  wings.  O  shining  Dove — 
I'.ut  my  way  is  the  darkrst  way. 

Joseph   Maiy  I'ltinkclt 


-''.^ 


THE  BOOK  OF 


7?5  The  Backward  Glance 

THEY  set  him  on  a  sunny  road, 
His  face  toward  the  world's  expanse: 
"Yonder,"  they  said,  "the  victor's  crown; 
Beware  of  the  backward  glance." 

"Run   swift,   run  true,   the  crown   is  thine!" 

Unhindered   through   the   crescent  hours 
He  ran  a  fair  and  level  road 
^    That  went  lietween  the  flowers. 

But  when  he  left  the  valley  path 

And  up  the  hill  began  to  climb. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  distant   feet 

That  with  his  own  kept  time. 

He  closed  his  ears,  he  steeled  his  heart, 
Yet  still  that  sound  came  down  the  wind; 

He  turned,  and  saw  a  dreadful   form 
That  followed  far  behind. 

Then  forward  on  his  way  he  sprang. 

Scaling    the    hill    with    shortening    breath; 

But  ever  on  his  ears  there  rang 
The  pattering  feet  of  Death. 

At  noon  upon  a  lonely  height 

He  stood,  and  saw  the  road  run  down 
214 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

A  shining  ribbon  of  desire 

Straight  to  the  promised  crown. 

"  Lord  of  my  life  am  I  !  "'  he  cried. 

"  The  crown  is  mine."     But  as  the  hope 
Flamed  in  his  breast,  he  looked  behind : 

Death's  feet  were  on  the  sIojjc. 

Then  down  the  steep  and  sudden  path 
Swift  to  the  goal  he  took  his  flight. 

Far  down  the  hill,  he  looked  again  — 
Death  stood  upon  the  height. 

On,  on  he  .si)ed.  until  the  crown 
Against   the   glowing  sunset   shone : 

Yet  ever  at  the  backward  glance 
The  following  form  drew  on. 

Fast  through  the  gathering  du.'^k  he  flew: 

He  leapt,  the  guerdon  to  embrace. 
But  as  he  leapt,  he  looked  behind  — 

Death  lof)ked  him  in  the  face. 
.    '  Evelyn    Undcrliill 


/.?/  Gallozvs 

THERE  was  a  weasel  lived  in  the  sun 
With    all .  his    family. 
Till  a  keeper  shot  him  with  his  gun 
Anrl   hung  him   up  on   a   tree, 
Where  he  swings  in  the  winci  and   rain 

215 


TllK  BOOK  OF 

In  the  sun  and  in  the  snow, 
Without   pleasure,   without   jtain 
( )n  tlie  (lead  oak  tree  houpjh. 

There  was  a  crow  who  was  no  sleeper, 

Hut  a  thief  and   a   murderer 

Till    a    very    late    hour ;    and    this    keeper 

Made  him  one  of  the  thin^^s  that  were, 

To  hang  and  flap  in  rain  and  wind. 

In  the  sun  and  in  the  snow. 

There  are  no  more   sins  to  be   sinned 

On   the   dead   oak    tree   hough. 

There  was  a  magpie,  too, 

Had  a  long  tongue  and  a  long  tail ; 

He  could  both  talk   and  do  — 

But  what  did  that  avail  ? 

He,  too,  flaps  in  the  wind  and  rain 

Alongside  weasel  and  crow. 

Without  pleasure,  without  pain, 

On  the  dead  oak  tree  bough. 

And  many  other  beasts 

And  birds,  .skin,  bone  and  feather, 

Have  been  taken   from  their  feasts 

And  hung  up  there  together. 

To  swing  and  have  endless  leisure 

In  the  sun  and  in  the  snow, 

W^ithout  pain,  without  pleasure. 

On  the  dead  oak  tree  bough. 

Edward  Thomas 


216 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 


/  ?5    Plaint  of  Friendship  by  Death  Broken 
(R.  P.,  Loos,  1013) 

GOD,  if  Thou  livest,  Thine  eye  on  nie  bend, 
And  stay  my  grief  and  bring  my  pain  to  end: 
Pain  for  my  lost,  the  deepest,  rarest   friend 
Man  ever  had,  whence  groweth   this  despair. 

I  had  a  friend:  but.  O!  he  is  now  dead; 
I  had  a  vision:  for  wliich  he  has  bled: 
I  had  happiness:  but  it  is  fled. 

God  help  me  now,  for  I  must  needs  despair. 

His  eyes  were  dark  and  sad.  yet  never  sad; 
In  them  moved  sombre  figures  sable-clad; 
They  were  the  decijest  eyes  man  ever  bad. 

They  were  my  solemn  joy  —  now  my  despair. 

In  my  perpetual  night  they  on  me  look, 
Reading  me  slowly ;  and  I  cannot  brook 
Their  silent  beauty,  for  nor  crack  nor  nook 
Can  cover  me  but  they  shall  find  me  there. 

His   face  was  straight,  his  mouth   was  wide  yet   trim; 
His  hair  was  tangled  black,  and  through  its  dim 
Softness  his  perplexed  hand  would  writhe  and  swim  — 
Hands  that  were  small  f)n  arms  strong-knit  yet  .sjjare. 

He  stood  no  taller  than  our  conmion  span. 
Swam  but  nor  farther  leajjed  nor  faster  ran  ; 

217 


THE  BOOK  OF 

1  know  him  spirit  now,  who  seemed  a  man. 
God  help  mc  now,  for  I  niiist  needs  despair. 

His  voice  was  low  and  clear,  yet  it  could  rise 
And  beat  in  indignation  at  the  skies; 
Then  no  man  dared  to  meet  his  fire-filled  eyes, 
And  even  I,  his  own  friend,  did  not  dare. 

With  humorous  wistfulness  he  spoke  to  us. 
Yet  there  was  something  more  mysterious. 
Beyond  his  words  or  silence,  glorious : 

I  know  not  what,  but  we  could  feel  it  there. 

I  mind  now  how  we  sat  one  winter  night 
While  past  his  open  window  raced  the  bright 
Snow-torrent  golden  in  the  hot  firelight  .  .  . 
I  see  him  smiling  at  the  streamered  air. 

I   watched  him  to  the  open  window  go. 

And  lean,  long  smiling,  whispering  to  the  snow. 

Play  with  his  hands  amid  the  fiery  flow 

And  when  he  turned  it  flamed  amid  his  hair. 

Without  arose  a  sudden  bell's  huge  clang 
Until  a  thousand  bells  in  answer  rang 
And  midnight  Oxford  hummed  and  reeled  and  sang 
Under  the  whitening  fury  of  the  air. 

His  figure  standing  in  the  fiery  room  .  .  . 
Behind  him  the  snow  seething  through  the  gloom  .  . 
The  great  bells  shaking,  thundering  out  their  doom  .  . 
Soft  Fiery  Snow  and  Xight  his  being  were. 
218 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Yet  he  could  be  simply  glad  and  take  his  choice, 
Walking  spring  woods,  mimicking  each  bird  voice ; 
When  he  was  glad  we  learned  how  to  rejoice: 
If  the  birds  sing,  'tis  to  my  spite  they  dare. 

All  women  loved  him,  yet  his  mother  won 
His  tenderness  alone,  for  Moon  and  Sun 
And  rain  were  for  him  sister,  brother,  loved  one, 
And  in  their  life  he  took  an  equal  share. 

.Strength  he  had,  too:  strength  of  unrusted  will 
Buttressed  his  natural  charity,  and  ill 
Fared  it  with  him  who  sought  his  good  to  kill : 
He  was  its  Prince  and  Champion  anywhere. 

^'ct  he  had  weakness,   for  he  Inirned  too  fast: 
And  his  unreckcd-of  body  at  the  last 
lie   in   impatience   on   the   bayonets   cast. 

Body  whose  spirit  had  outsoarcd  them  there. 

I  had  a  friend,  but,  O  !  he  is  now  dead. 
Fate  would  not  let  me  follow  where  he  led. 
In  him  I  had  happiness.     I'ut  he  is  dead, 
riod  hcl])  me  now.   for  I   nuist  needs  despair. 

God,  if  Thou  livest.  and  indeed  didst  send 
Thine  only  .Son  to  be  to  all  a  b'riend. 
Rid  His  dark,  pitying  eyes  upon  me  bend, 

God  help  mc  uo'a',  for  I  iiiiisl  needs  despair. 

Robert  Nichols 

In   Hospital,  .  Iiiliiiiiii,   1913. 


219 


THE  BOOK  OF 


7^?d  An  Epitaph 

HERE   lies   a   most   beautiful   lady, 
Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she ; 
I   think  she   was  the  most  beautiful  lady 
That  ever  was  in  the  West  Country. 
But  beauty  vanishes ;  beauty  passes ; 
However  rare  —  rare  it  be  ; 
And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 
This  lady  of  the  West  Country? 

Walter  de  la  Mare 


/?/  The  Listeners 

'*TS  there   anybody   there?"   said  the   Traveller, 

JL        Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor  — 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head  — 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time ; 

"  Is  there  anybody  there."  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

Xo  head  from  the  leaf-fringed  sill 
Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  grey  eyes, 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 

220 


MODERX  BRITISH  VERSE 

Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonHght 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men : 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark  stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall. 
Hearkening  in   an   air   stirred   and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call. 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness. 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry,. 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Xeath   the   starred  and  leafy  sky; 
For  he   suddenly   smote  on  the   door,   even 

Louder,    and    lifted   his   head: — 
"  Tell  them   I  came,  "  and  no  one  answered, 

'■  That  I  kept  my  word,"  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners, 

Though  every  word  he  spake 
Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still  house 

I'rom  the  one  man  left  awake : 
.\y,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup. 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone. 
And  how   the   silence  surged  softly   backward, 

When   the   ])lunging   hoofs   were   gone. 

Walter  ilc  la  Marc 


ijcS  I  lie  iriiisf^crcrs 

AS  beneatli  thv  moon   I   walked, 
Dog-at-heel  my  sha<l<)w  stalked. 
Keeping  ghostly  company : 
And  as  we  went  gallantly 
Down   the    fcll-road.   dusty-white. 

J  J I 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Round  us  in  the  windy  night 
Bracken,  rushes,  bent  and  heather 
Whispered  ceaselessly  together: 
"  \\'ould  he  ever  journey  more. 
Ever   stride    so   carelessly, 
If  he  knew  what  lies  before, 
And  could  see  what  we  can  see  ?  " 

As  I   listened,  cold  with  dread, 
Every  hair  upon   my  head 
Strained  to  hear   them   talk   of   me, 
Whispering,  whispering  ceaselessly 
"  Folly's  fool  the  man  must  be, 
Surely,  since,   though  where  he  goes 
He  knows  not,  his  shadow  knows : 
And  his  secret  shadow  never 
Utters  warning  words,  or  ever 
Seeks  to  save  him  from  his  fate. 
Reckless,   blindfold,   and  unknown, 
Till  death  tells  him  all,  too  late. 
And  his  shadow  walks  alone.'' 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


/J9        The  House  of  the  Soul:  Lay 

IHA\^E   forgotten   my  name   and  the   name  of  my 
nation  .  .  .  yes 
I  know  alone  I  have  lost  myself,  and  have  wandered  far 

astray 
From  the  land  where  the  magical  fir-trees  grow,  farther 
than  far  Cathay, 

222 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Farther  than  fair  Atlantis  or  the  hills  of  Tir-fa-tonn, 
Or   the    isles   of   Bran    and    Mailduin,    or   the    isle   of 

Avalon; 
From  the  city  -built  on  the  rivers,   where  the   willow- 
branches  sw  ax- 
To  a  quiet  tune  all  nis^ht  to  the  moon,  and  dream  in 

the  sun  all  day. 
Where  the  gardens  drink  at  the  river's  brink  and  the 

poppies  dip  to  the  water  wan. 
And  the  roses  fall  from  the  hot  red  wall  like  showers 
of  light  on  the  water  gray. 

Xow  and  agani  by  night,  when  the  sun's  last  ray 
Has  crawled  under  the  sky-line,  and  I  hoar  tlie  waves' 

array 
March  clip-claj)  after  me.  driving  me  u])  the  bay 
That  is  ringed  with  ctitYs  and   foam-girt,  and  the  bats 

wheel  out  anon. 
Sometimes  I   half   remember  .  .   .  and   again   the  word 

is  gone ; 
And   I  know  th.it    1    am   lomly,   antl  the  night   and  the 

sea  and  the  spray. 
Unrestingly,  unhastingly.  march  <m  with  no  delay. 
And  the  sheer  height  of  the  cliffs'  white  stands  like  the 

base  of  the  great   white  throne. 
And  I  seem  to  be  left  with  ( iod.  bereft  of  any  wisdom 

to   plead   or   pray. 

Some  one  has  leased  me  a  house  that  is  huge  ami  dark 

and  old 
,\nd  fdled  with  fither  mens  dust; 

223 


THE  BOOK  OF 

I  do  not  remember  bargaining-,  bnt  I  pay  tlic  ])ricc  in 

gold, 
Year    after   year  ...  a    heavy    price  .  .  .  and    pay    it 

because  I  must. 
Its  rafters  are  full  of  mould 
And  its  bars,  of  rust ; 

The  slates  fly   from  the   roof  at  every  gust 
Of  the  wind  over  the  wold. 


I  should  like  to  search  my  house,  if  only  I  were  bold, 

And  scrape  the  mildew-crust 

From     cobweb-curtained     corners     that     are     quaintly 

shaped  and  cold 
And   heaped   with    curious   hangings ;   yet    I    have   but 

little  lust 
To  find  what  may  not  be  told 
Or  ever  discussed 

Hid  in  a  closet,  maybe,  or  carefully  thrust 
Into   a   curtain's    fold. 


I  am  afraid  of  my  house,  and  I  wish  I  knew 

Who 

Those  other  tenants  were 

That  my  landlord  leased  it  to; 

I   know   that  they  have  been   there, 

For  sometimes  I   find  a   shoe 

Or  a  ribbon   for  the  hair  .  .  . 

There's  a  grandfather  clock  on  the  stair. 

And  an  odd  little  bust  on  a  l)racket,  for  which  I  don't 

very  much  care. 

224 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

"  They  have  left  long  since ;  what  matter  to  you?  "... 
True. 

But  I  wish  my  house  was  bare 
And  perfectly  clean  and  new, 
For  the  hollowed  seat  of  a  chair 
Or  a  rod  wrenched  askew 
Gives  me  the  creeps,  and  I  dare 
Hardly  breathe  in  an  air 

So  thick  with  the  dust  of  those  who  once  were  here, 
and  who  now  are  .  .  .  where? 

One  day  the  storm  was  loud,  the  clouds  clung  thick  and 

red 
Close  to  the   windows,   the   sky   glowed   like   a  copper 

pan, 
The  thunder  muttered  and  cracked,  the  liglitning  leai)t 

from  its  bed 
Like  a  beast,  the  rain   ripped  down   like   a  curtain  of 

iron   thread; 
And   every   nook   of   the   house    was   dim   and   strange 

and  dread. 
And  odd  things  shufiled  and  sc|ucakc(l   in   the  corners, 

and  queer  feet  ran 
Hither  and  thither  .  .  .  the  light   was  split,  furled  and 

unfurled  like  a  fan  .  .  . 
That  was  a  day  of  God's  ban. 

And  it  suddenly  cami-  to  my  mind  th.it  the  house  was 

inhabited 
By  people  that  hid  themselves,  and  I  swore  to  seek  and 

scan 


I'llE  LiUOK  OF 

And  find  those  flittering  feet,  and  the  voices,  and  what 

they  said ; 
But   the  lightning-  flashed   and   shook  me,   and  dizzied 

all  my  head, 
And  I  searched  each  room  and  closet,  and  I  sped  and 

sped  and  sped 
Through  turret  and  tower  and  corridor,  till  trembling 

I  began 
To  open   the  dungeon   doors,   and  lo !   in   the   deepest, 

an  old,  old  man 
That  sat,  and  sang  and  span. 

And,  do  you  know,  I   could  not  find  him  again  ! 
Not   once !     Though    I    sometimes    fancied    I   heard   a 

strain 
With  a  sort  of  humming  refrain; 
And  I'd  tip-toe  down  the  staircase,  close  to  the  wall 
To  deaden  my  footfall; 
And  the  singing  would  rise  and  wane. 
And  the  flame  of  my  secret  candle   shrink,  and  shoot 

up  smoky  and  tall. 

So,  very  quietly  creeping,  I'd  suddenly  gain 

A  little,  low,  iron-bound  door,  and  "  Not  in  vain 

This  time,"  I  would  whisper,  "  my  pain  !  " 

Then    I'd    fling   the    door    back    quick    with    a    cheery 

call  .  .  . 
Silence,  nothing  at  all ! 
Now  is  it  not  wholly  plain 
That     here     was     something     of     wizardry,     mystical, 

magical  ? 

226 


MODERN  BRITISH  \'ERSE 


I  hate  the  clock ; 
It  first  says  Tick, 
It   then   says   Tock ; 
I  hear  days  flick 
I  see  years  flock. 
The  whole  world  rock ; 
Had   I   the  trick 
I'd    like   to    lock 
Time  with  a  block 
To  make  it  stick. 


1  lie,  haec  and  hoc, 
I  loc,  haec  and  hie, 
I'.ach,  at  each  knock 
Drops  like  a  brick 
Sticks  like  a  stock 
Just  at  the  shock 
( "aught  in  the  nick  ; 
'["here fore  the  mock 
Of  that  red  cock 
Turned  Peter  sick. 


My    house    upon   the    landward   side 
Looks  out  toward  the  town; 
Pleasant  it  is  all  day  to  bide 
High  in  the  thin  air  rarefied. 
And  gaze  delighti-d  down 
On  busy  folk  that  drive  and  ride 
And  run  and  crawl  anrl  hop  and  stride 
Like  beetles  black  and  brown. 

227 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Stiff  soldiers  stalk,  kings  pace  in  pride, 
And  statesmen  stoop  and  frown, 
The    women    strut   and    mince   and   glide, 
Priests  bustle  round  at  Eastertide  .  .  . 
All  but  their  boots  their  broad  hats  hide. 
The  wind  blows  out  their  gown,  .  .  . 
Tramps  slouch  and  spit,  boys  jump  and  slide. 
They  look  all  head.     How  I  deride 
King,  lady,  priest  and  clown ! 

My  house  is  haunted  and  hell-enchanted-  by  a  conjuror 

vaunted  .  .  .  hear   them  tripping. 
Chattering,  scattering,  imps  undaunted,  here  they  come 

battering,  pattering,  skipping. 
Dancing  and  prancing,  gloating  and  glancing,  bawling, 

brawling,  leering  and  lipping. 
Snarling  and  nipping 
Clinging  and  gripping 
Winding  and   whirling,   twisting   and   twirling,   sliding 

and  sprawling  askew  and  slipping  .  .  . 
And  they  revel,  vitriolic. 
Diabolic, 

Like  a  devil  witli  the  colic  .  .  . 
Topping !    rijiping ! 

O  the  smashing  and   O   the  crashing,   O  the  hashing 

and  slashing  and  snipping 
My  goods!  ...  If  I  could  give  you  a  thrashing,  send 

you  home  with  a  good  sound  whipping, 
Bestial  brood  of  a  brutal  mood,  when  the  devil  and  I 

lay  kissing  and  clipping  ... 
Now  curtseying,  dipping, 

228 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Sweating  and  dripping, 

Heel-and-toeing.  to-and-froing.  winking,  blinking,  bib- 
bing, and  sipping  .  .  . 
How  you  frolic  alcoholic. 
How  you  rolick. 
Me,   a   wretched  melancholic. 
Shaming,  strippins^  ! 

This  was  the  song  that,  like  a  distant  bell 

Exceeding  light  and  thin. 

Came  at  the  dawning  after  nights  of  hell 

From   far  away   within; 

Maybe    from    that    unsearchable    dark    coll 

It  did  begin 

Where   that   old   man,   whose   name   I   cannot  tell, 

Doth  sit  and  spin. 

"  Empty  the  winds  that  can   the  clouds  dispel, 

And  silence  after  din. 

Water  has  virtue  heats  of  wine  to  (|uell. 

I'atigue  gives  i)ause  to  sin, 

And  rest  seemed  good  to  Adam  when  he  fell, 

As  to  his  kin  ; 

O  well  it  is  for  me.  O  well.  O  well 

This   way   to  win."' 

^'esterday,    looking    through    my    window-bars. 

The  whole  sad  sea  was' changed  resplendently 

I'.y  one  great  ship  that  sailed  with   raking  sjjars 

Into  the  sunshine;  and  her  masts  were  three. 

Red,  splendid  banners  iii  the  wind  flew  free, 

Her  blown  white  sails  were  thick   with   iciuprst-sr.ns. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Twelve  blazoned  shields  along  her  sides  had  she, 
And  round  about  her  prow,  the  name  of  the  Trinity. 

By  night  she  lit  her  lanterns  from  the  stars 

And  on  her  decks  held  mighty  jubilee 

With  wine  poured  out   from  strange  Assyrian  jars 

And  wheaten  bread  for  all  her  company. 

"  O  sirs,"  I  cried,  "  whither  with  such  good  glee 

Sail  ye  for  merchandise  or  mighty  wars?  " 

The    Captain    said:     "Come    down,    take    ship    with 

me"  .  .  . 
Then  with  this  song  we  weighed  and  sailed  across  the 

sea. 

"  We   that   speed  on   the  shifting  floor 

Where  the   green   waters   vary 

With  many  a  song  and  stroke  of  oar. 

Sail  for  the  chase  of  the  silver  boar 

That's  horned  and  hoofed  and  hairy; 

His  eyes  are  bright,  his  bristles  hoar, 

And  hung  with  golden  bells  galore ; 

O  many  a  time  he  flees  and  flics  across  the  uplands  airy. 

And  fierce  he  is,  and  fleet  he  is,  and  light  and  wight 

and  wary. 
And  bravely  famed  in   faery  lore 
By  many  a  hunter  sought  of  yore. 

"  The  dark,  salt  sea  is  bitter  and   frore. 
The  wind  of  comfort  chary. 
But   though   the   drenching  sleet   downpour 
And  Manawyddan's  green  steed  roar, 
We  are  not  solitary, 
230 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

For  Rhiannon's  sweet  song-birds  soar 

About  our  heads  for  evermore. 

With  the  first  stroke  for  Jesus  King,  the  second  stroke 

for  Mary, 
The   tliird   stroke   for  the   Trinity,   the   fourth    for  the 

land  of  faery. 
By  one,  by  two.  by  three,   by   four, 
We   reach    the    wonderful,    weirded   shore." 

I   am   sailing  to   seek    my   name   and   the   name   of   my 

nation  .  .  .  nay 
I'or  I  know  the  land  that  bore  me,  where  the  marvellous 

sea  beasts  play, 
Where  are  silver  bells  on  the  Ijlackthorn  boughs,  and 

golden  bells  on  the  may. 
Where    the    magical    Boar    abideth.    and    the    birds    of 

Rhiannon. 
And  .\dam  and  Eve  and  Enoch,  and  Arthur  and  Trcster 

John. 
I  have  learnt  the  name  of  my  city,  and  learnt   to  ask 

my  way. 
.\nfl  the  whole  ship's  crew  are  my   fellows  loo,  and  a 

merry  crew  be  they ; 
All  day  we  sail  with  a  favouring  gale  or  gird  ourselves 

as  the  storm  draws  on, 
.And   strive  and  cope  with   rudder   and   rope,   ;iiid    sing 

aloufj  in  the  loud  affray. 

\nd  other  things  I  have  learnt,  and  the  (irst  is  still  to 

say 
To  myself,  "  O  unlearned    fool  !  "   and  also.   "  Fool,  be 

gay  !  " 

-'3' 


THE  BOOK  OF 

O  well  for  the  glorious  chase  of  God,  and  well  for  the 

hot  assay  ! 
Well    for  the  noise  of   water,    for  the  hills   where   the 

sun  has  shone, 
h'or  the  trees  on  the  far  horizon  and  the  chart  we  may 

not  con  ! 
Well   for  the   terrible   wer-wolf,  and  the  caves  where 

the  witch-wife  lay 
Till  we  touched  her  brows  with  the  rowan  boughs  and 

left  her  harmless  clay ! 
Well  for  the  land  where  the  fir-trees  stand  and  all  we 

witless    wanderers   wonne ! 
God  bless  the  fools  and  the  wise  in  schools,  et  gloria 

tibe,   Domine ! 

Dorothy  L.  Sayers 


140  Divina  Commedia 

"  In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace." —  Dante. 

THESE  things  have  passed;  no  more  through  twi- 
light hours, 
In  that  dark  Eden  of  the  coloured  May, 
On  the  brown  river's  bank  among  the  flowers, 
Countess  Mathilda  takes  her  painted  way. 

And   little   red   anemones,   and   white 
Narcissus  seem  to  dream  in  vain, 
Of  the  blue  sky  and  the  sun's  gentle  light 
And  the  lost  streams  of  the  far  Tuscan  plain. 
232 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Xow  long  forgotten  is  that  wood  serene 
Where  Lethe's  moonless  waters  onward  glide. 
Bending  the   ragged   blades   of   grass   that   lean 
Forth  from  the  green  bank  underneath  the  tide. 

Xoble  Piccarda's  pearly  brows  divine 
Holding  the  secret  of  the  world-old  rune. 
Like   a    fair   jewel    in    a   carven    shrine 
Trouble  no  more  the  white  ways  of  the  moon. 

Long  mute  is  Cavalcanti's  broken  prayer; 
The   smile  of    Beatrice,   to   earth   denied, 
Shines  now  no  more  on  Saturn's  golden  stair; 
Through  no  sad  town  shall   \'irgil  be  our  guide. 

Along  the  dark   ravine,  in   single  file, 
Monks  of   Bologna   now  no  longer  tread 
The   weary   mazes  of   the   dismal    aisle, 
P.eneath  the  torment  of  the  cowls  of  lead. 

No  flaming  tomb  can   smother  down   the  chords 
Of  the  new  music  delicately  harsh. 
I'.eyond  the  glint  of  crowns,  the  clash  of  swords. 
And  the   lost  horror   of  the   blood   stained   marsh. 

P'or  we,  men  say.  have  lost  our  heaven  and  g<i 
.Along    dim    valleys    shadowed    everywhere. 
l"ar  from  the  hills  where,  glittering,  the  white  snow 
\'et  stabs  with  cruel  knives  the  sunny  .'lir. 

.As  Dante's  fierce  <io(l,  thront-d  in  luvc  ;ind  light 
■N'et  pierccfl  the  hearts  (;f  gentle  folk  ;ind  kind. 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And  drove  out  gracious   \irgil    froui  his  sight 
And   turned  to   bitterness   the   sunny   wind. 

\Vc  sigh  where  Dante  sang,  our  hungry  eyes 
Grown   weary   of   the   angels'   flaming   wings, 
Have  made  a  rainbow  heaven  of  tears  and  sighs 
And  the  sea's  voice,  and  pale  and  sorrowful  thin-T^s. 

We  sigh  where  Dante  sang  —  thus  have  we   found 
His  poor  lost  people  on  that  open  road, 
That  leads  through  marsh  and  fire  and  broken  ground 
Unto  the  ultimate  divine  abode. 

Piccarda  triunii)hs  in  that  dream  of  hers 
That  bitter  grief  and  outrage  had  not  slain. 
The  secret  that  the  world's  soul  shakes  and  stirs, 
That   Dante   sought   through   conquered   stars   in   vain. 

And    Beatrice, —  vanished   is   the    shining   sphere 
And  saints'  high  throne  above  the  world  apart, 
Yet  with  us  dwells  the  dream  divine  and  dear 
That   folds  in  beauty  every  living  heart. 

The  heaven  time  brings  us  shall  not  be  too  strait 

For  pale  Francesca :  only  broken  bars 

Lie  prone  where  once  was  hid,  by  the  sad  gate, 

"  The  love  that  moved  the   sun   and  the  other  stars." 

A  love  grown  wide  enough  for  Plato's  dream 
And  Homer's  story;  not  too  cramped  to  hold 
Those  pilgrim  souls  by  Acheron's  sad  stream, 
For  ever  shut  out  of  the  barred  fold. 
234 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Death  without  ^lory.  heaven  without  wings 
Or  angels,   bright   hopes   overthrown, 
We  sigh  where  Dante  sang,  our  wanderings 
Have  brought  us  to  the  gate  of  life  unknown. 

No  heaven  is  ours  of  lights  and  whirling  flame  — 
For  dying  warriors  a  starlit  goal  — 
But  a  lost  country  called  by  a  new  name, 
Deep  buried  in  dim  valleys  of  the  soul. 

A  gentle  land  where  the  white  singing  waves 
Move  softly  under  silver  twilight  .skies. 
And  life  with  her  fierce  wars  and  dreadful  graves 
Seems  but  a  little  wind  (hat   falling  sighs. 

Xo  painful  voice  makes  pitiful  that  wind. 
All  bitter  dreams  sleep  in  the  quiet  vale 
Where,  out  of  clashing  darkness  fierce  and  blind, 
A    new   dawn   gliniiucrs   gently,    olive-pale. 

The  poet's  laurel  and  the  martyr's  i)alm, 
Wither,  the  old  enchantments  fade  and  cease; 
^'^ct  still  the  vision  of  the  ancient  calm 
'Folds,   round  this   weary   world,   wide  wings  of   peace. 

And  all  men  j)assing  down  beneath  tlu-  boughs 
Of   the   dim    forest   to  the   magic   sea 
Mysterious  have   felt  against   their  brows 
The  buffet  of  the  ancient   mystery. 

A  drift  f)f   scattered  spray,   ;i    fallen   leaf. 

Bear    witness    to    that    strange    aiul    unsci.-n    wind 


THE  BOOK  OF 

That  drives  the  high  tide  over  shoal  and  reef 
And  lonely  heachcs  of  moon-haunted  mind. 

The  light  that  passes,   witli   a   sudden  thrill, 

The  moonlight's  glamour   and  the   twilight's  gleam  — 

Waking  beyond  our  world  of  good  and  ill 

The  sleeping  purpose  underneath  the  dream. 

The  ray  of  cold  reality  austere, 
Shining  beyond  the  gates  of  joy  or  dole, 
That  to  the  eyes  of  sorrow  shall  make  clear 
The  hidden  dweller  in  the  darkened  soul. 

For  whose  sake  Dante  by  the  convent  door. 
Sure  of  his  golden  heaven  at  close  of  day. 
When  the  monk  asked  what  he  was  seeking  for, 
Answered  but   "  Peace  "   and   went   upon   his   way. 

Shrinking   from   dreadful   creeds   of   storm   and   stress 
And  dreams  of  passionate  wrath,  bitter  and  blind, 
To  seek  in  his  own  soul  for  gentleness 
And  find  the  Divine  in  a  comrade's  mind. 

As   one   who   knew    the   inner   unseen    tide 
Of  beauty  beating  up  against  the  walls 
At  evening,  breaking  down  their  coloured  pride 
When  all  things  are  as  one,  and  twiliglit  falls. 

This  was  his  grief,  shut  behind  iron  bars. 
Roaming  through  darkened  rooms  in  sunless  towers  — 
His  soul  yet  caught  a  glamour  from  the  stars 
And  knew  the  dauntless  will  of  tlic  wild  flowers. 
236 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

The  captive  soul  of  geiitlciicss  in  him 
Looked     out     through     narrowed     windows,     passion- 
blurred  ; 
Yet  through  tlie   darkness  of  his  prison   dim 
The  far  faint  voices  of  the  rain  were  heard. 

With  them  he  trysted  outside  heaven's  gate 

Who   mould  the   gracious   word   and  carve  the   stone, 

To   thrust   aside   one   moment    love   and  hate 

And  gaze   into  the   eyes  of  the   I'nknown. 

I'"or  he   was  one  of  those   sad   souls   who  wrought 
Life  into  glory.  marMe  into  form. 
And  carved  across  the  brows  of  human  thought 
The  Eternal  Beauty's  pale  and  frozen  storm. 

Now  that  the  sunshine  has  quenched  all  his  fire 
And   time  has  swept  his  narrow  gates  apart, 
We  lean   across  the  sundering  ages  dire 
To  greet  the  dreanur  of  the  pitiless  heart, 

Knowing   the    Inlinite    Ouict.    pale    and    vast, 
I-'loats  round  his  dreams,  as  the  dark  tide  floats  round 
The  loud  green  waves  that  rise  and  thunder  i)ast 
And  sink  to  rest   in   silent   seas  profound. 

/ii't;  Core-Booth 


2.^7 


THE  BOOK  OF 


141  Niccolo  Machiavelli 

FROM   thy   serene  abode   thou   lookest  down 
With    pitying   eye   upon   a    rabble    rout 
Who  strive  and  plot  and  fight  and  turn   about. 
Endeavoring  to  seize  some  phantom  crown, — 
Whether  of  kingdom  or  of  some  small  town, 
Or  village  —  or  one  single  home  —  their  own  : 
They  stumble,  and  with  hurried  steps  awry 
Blindly  they  miss  their  opportunity ; 
Whilst,   all   the   time,   thy   Golden    Book    is   there. 
Ripe  with  earth's  wisdom;  but  they  only  stare 
Or  pass  along  with  stupid  scoff  and  curse. 
Using  thy  name  for  "  scoundrelly  "  or  worse. 

Of  all  those  who  have  striven  to  endow 

The  world  with  garnered  knowledge,  only  thou 

Hast  for  so  long  endured  of  thorns  the  crown : 

Beneath  the  feet  of  swine  thy  name  is  thrown ; 

And  in  the  streets  thy  priceless  wit  doth  lie; 

So  that,   alone,   the   stooping  passer-by 

Undaunted  by  an  epithet,  may  find ; 

And  treasuring  like  gold  seven  times  refined. 

Open  the  casket  with  exultant  air 

To  see  the  Pearl  of  Wisdom  lying  there. 

Bernard  Gilbert 


238 


iMODERX  BRITISH  VERSE 


142  Biography 

W[IEX  I  am  buried,  all  my  thoughts  and  acts 
Will  be  reduced  to  lists  of  dates  and   facts. 
And  long  before  this  wandering  flesh   is  rotten 
The  dates  which  made  me  will  be  all  forgotten ; 
And  none  will  know  the  gleam  there  used  to  be 
About  the  feast  days   freshly  kept  by  me, 
But  men  will  call  the  golden  hour  of  liliss 
"  About  this  time,"  or  "  shortly  after  this." 

Men  do  not  heed  the  rungs  by  which  men  climb 
Those  glittering  steps,  those  milestones  upon  Time. 
Those  tombstones  of  dead  selves,  those  hours  of  birth, 
Those  moments  of  the  soul  in  years  of  earth; 
They  mark  the  height  achieved,  the  main   result, 
The  power  of  freedom  in  the  perished  cult. 
The  power  of  boredom  in  the  dead  man's  deeds, 
Xot  the  bright  moments  of  the  sprinkled  seeds. 

By  many  waters  and  on  many  ways 

I    have   known    golden    instants    and    hrigiit    days; 

The  day  on  which,  beneath  an  arching  sail. 

I   saw  the  Cordilleras  and  gave  hail ; 

The  summer  day  on  which  in  hearts  delight 

I    saw   the    Swansea    Munil)Ies   bursting   white, 

The  glittering  day  when  all  the  waves  wore  flags 

.And  the  ship  wanderer  came  with  sails  in  rags; 

That  curlew-calling  time  in   Irish  dusk 

When  life  became  more  splendid  than  its  husk, 


THE  BOOK  OF 

When  tlie  rent  cliapcl  on  the  brae  at  Slains 
Shone  with  a  doorway  opening  beyond  brains ; 
The  dawn  when,  with  a  lirace-block's  creaking  cry, 
Ont  of  the  mist  a   Httle  l)arqne  slipped  by, 
SpilHng  the  mist  with  changing  gleams  of  red, 
Then  gone,  with  one  raised  hand  and  one  turned  head; 
The  howling  evening  when  the  spindrift's  mists 
Broke  to  display  the  four  Evangelists, 
Snow-capped,  divinely  granite,  lashed  by  breakers, 
Wind-beaten  bones  of  long  since  buried  acres ; 
The  night  alone  near  water  when  I  heard 
All  the  sea's  spirit  spoken  by  a  bird; 
The  English  dusk  when  I  beheld  once  more 
(With  eyes  so  changed)   the  ship,  the  citied  shore, 
The  lines  of  masts,   the  streets   so  cheerly  trod 
(In    happier    seasons)    and   gave   thanks    to    God. 
All  had  their  beauty,  their  bright  moments'  gift, 
Their    something    caught    from    Time,    the    ever-swift. 

All  of  those  gleams  were  golden  ;  but  life's  hands 

Have  given  more  constant  gifts  in  changing  lands, 

And  when  I  count  those  gifts,  I  think  them  such 

As  no  man's  bounty  could  have  bettered  much : 

The  gift  of  country  life,  near  hills  and  woods 

Where  happy  waters  sing  in  solitudes, 

The  gift  of  being  near  ships,  of  seeing  each  day 

A  city  of  ships  with  great  ships  under  weigh. 

The  great  .street  paved  with  water,  filled  with  shipping. 

And  all  the  world's  flags  flying  and  seagulls  dipping. 

'S'ct  when  T  am  dust  my  penman  may  not  know 
Those  water-trampling  ships  which  made  me  glow, 
240 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

But  think  my  wonder  mad  and  fail  to  find 
Their   glory,   even   dimly,    from   my   mind. 
And  yet  they  made  me :  —  not  alone  the  ships 
But  men  hard-palmed   from  tallying-on  to  whips, 
The  two  close  friends  of  nearly  twenty  years. 
Sea-followers  both,  sea-wrestlers  and  sea-peers. 
Whose  feet  with  mine  wore  many  a  bolt-head  bright 
Treading  the  decks  beneath  the  ridin.s:  li^bt 
Yet  death  will  make  that  warmth  of  fricndshi])  cold 
And  who'll  know  what  one  said  and  what  one  told 
Our    hearts'    conmiunion    and    the    broken    si)ells 
When  the  loud  call  blew  at  the  strike  of  bells? 
No  one,  I  know,  yet  let  me  be  believed     \ 
A  soul  entirely  known  is  life  achieved.     ' 


U'ears  blank  with  hardship  never  speak  a  word 
Live  in  the  soul  to  make  the  being  stirred. 
Towns  can  be  prisons  where  the  spirit  dulls 
<Away  from  mates  and  ocean-wandering  hulls, 
\Away  from  all  bright  water  and  great  hills 
lAnd  sheep-walks  where  the  curlews  cry  their  fills, 
Away  in  towns,  where  eyes  have  nought  to  see 
l*ut  dead   museums  and  miles  of  misery 
And    floating   life    unrooted    from    man's   need 
And  miles  of  fish-hooks  baited  to  catch  greed 
And  life  made   wretched  out  of  human  ken 
And   miles  of   shopping   women    served   by   men. 
So,  if  the  pcmiian  sums  my  London  days 
Let  him  but   say  that   there   were  holy   ways. 
Dull   I'.loomsbury  streets  of  dull  brick  mansions  old 
With  stinking  doors  where  wnnuii  stood  to  scold 

241 


thp:  book  of 

And  drunken  waits  at  Christmas  with  their  horn 
Droning  the  news,  in  snow,  that  Christ  was  born : 
And  windy  gas  lamps  and  the  wet  roads  shining 
And  that  old  carol  of  the  midnight  whining, 
And  that  old  room   (above  the  noisy  slum) 
AVhere  there  was  wine  and  fire  and  talk  with  some 
Under  strange  pictures  of  the  wakened  soul 
To  whom  this  earth  was  but  a  burnt-out  coal. 


O  Time,  bring  back  those  midnights  and  those  friends, 
Those  glittering  moments  that  a  spirit  lends 
That  all  may  be  imagined  from  the  flash 
The  cloud-hid  god-game  through  the  lightning  gash 
Those  hours  of  stricken  sparks  from  which  men  took 
Light  to  send  out  to  men  in  song  or  book. 
Those  friends  who  heard  St.  Pancras'  bells  strike  two 
Yet    stayed   until    the    barber's   cockerel    crew. 
Talking  of  noble  styles,  the  Frenchman's  best. 
The  thought  beyond  great  poets  not  expressed, 
The  glory  of  mood  where  human   frailty  failed, 
The  forts  of  human  light  not  yet  assailed. 
Till  the  dim  room  had  mind  and  seemed  to  brood 
Rinding  our  wills  to  mental  brotherhood, 
Till  we  became  a  college,  and  each  night 
Was   discipline   and   manhood    and   delight. 
Till  our  farewells  and  winding  down  the  stairs 
At  each  grey  dawn  had  meaning  that  Time  spares. 
That  we,  so  linked,  should  roam  the  whole  world  round 
Teaching  the  ways  our  brooding  minds  had  found 
Making  that  room  our  Chapter,  our  one  mind 
Where  all  that  this  world  soiled  should  be   refined. 
242 


MODERN   BRITISH  VERSE 

Often  at  night  I  tread  those  streets  again 

And  see  the  alley  glimmering  in  the  rain, 

Yet  now  I  miss  that  sign  of  earlier  tramps 

A  house  with  shadows  of  plane-boughs  under  lamps. 

The  secret  house  where  once  a  beggar  stood 

Trembling  and  blind  to  show  his  woe  for  food. 

And  now  I  miss  that  friend  who  used  to  walk 

Home  to  my  lodgings  with  me.  deep  in  talk, 

Wearing  the  last  of  night  out  in  still  streets 

Trodden  by  us  and  policemen  on  their  beats 

And  cats,  but  else  deserted;  now  I  miss 

That  lively  mind  and  guttural   laugh  of  his 

And  that  strange  way  he  had  of  making  gleam. 

Like  something  real,  the  art  we  used  to  dream. 

London  has  been  my  prison,  but  my  books 

Hills  and  great  waters,  labouring  men  and  brooks, 

Ships  and  deep  friendships  and  remembered  days 

Which  even  now  set  all  my  mind  ablaze 

As  that  June  day  when,  in  the  red  bricks'  clinks 

I  saw  the  old  Roman  ruins  white  with  pinks 

And  felt  the  hillside  haunted  even  then 

By  not  dead  memory  of  the  Roman  men. 

And   felt  the  hillside  thronged  by  souls  unseen 

Who  knew  the  interest   in  me  and  wire  keen 

That  man  alive  should  understand  nuui  dead 

So  many  centuries  since  the  blood  was  shed. 

And  quickened  with   strange  hush  because  this  comer 

Sensed  a  strange   soul   alive   behind   the   summer. 

That  other  day  on  Ercal  when  the  stones 

Were  sunbleachcd  while,  like  long  unburied  bones, 

While  the  bees  droned  and  all  the  air  was  sweet 

From  honey  buried  underneath  my   feet. 

^43 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Honey  of  purple  heather  and  white  clover 

Sealed  in  its  gummy  bags  till  summer's  over. 

Then  other  days  by  water,  by  bright  sea, 

Clear  as  clean  glass  and  my  bright  friend  with  me. 

The  cove  clean-bottomed  where  we  saw  the  brown 

Red  spotted  plaice  go  skimming  six  feet  down 

And  saw  the  long  fronds  waving,  white  with  shells, 

Waving,  unfolding  drooping,  to  the  swells; 

That  sadder  day  when  we  beheld  the  great 

And  terrible  beauty  of  a  Lammas  spate 

Roaring  white-mouthed  in  all  the  great  cliff's  gaps 

Headlong,  tree-tumbling  fury  of  collapse. 

While  drenching  clouds  drove  by  and  every  sense 

Was  water  roaring  or  rushing  or  in  offence, 

And  mountain   sheep   stood   huddled   and   blown   gaps 

gleamed 
Where  torn  white  hair  of  torrents  shook  and  streamed. 
That  sadder  day  when   we  beheld  again 
A  spate  going  down  in  sunshine  after  rain, 
When  the  blue  reach  of  water  leaping  bright 
Was  one  long  ripple  and  clatter,  flecked  with  white. 
And  that  far  day,  that  never  blotted  i)age 
When  youth  was  bright  like  flowers  about  old  age 
Fair   generations   bringing   thanks    for   life 
To  that  old  kindly  man  and  trembling  wife 
After  their  sixty  years:     Time  never  made 
A  better  beauty  since  the  Earth  was  laid 
Than  that  thanksgiving  given  to  grey  hair 
For  the  great  gift  of  life  which  brought  them  there. 

Days  of  endeavour  have  been  good:  the  days 
Racing  in  cutters  for  the  comrade's  praise, 
244 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

The  day  they  led  my  cutter  at  the  turn 

Yet  could  not  keep  the  lead  and  dropped  astern, 

The  moment  in  the  spurt  when  both  boats'  oars 

Dipped  in  each  other's  wash  and  throats  "grew  hoarse 

And  teeth  f?round  into  teeth  and  both  strokes  quickened 

Lashing  the  sea.  and  gasps  came  and  hearts  sickened 

And  coxswains  damned  us,  dancing,  banking  stroke. 

To  put  our  weights  on.  though  our  hearts  were  broke 

And  both  boats  seemed  to  stick  and  sea  seemed  glue, 

The  tide  a  mill  race  we  were  struggling  through 

And  every  quick  recover  gave  us  squints 

Of  them  still  there,  and  oar  tossed   water-glints 

And  cheering  came,  our  friends,  our  foemen  cheering, 

.'\   long  wild,   rallying   murmur  on   the  hearing  — 

••  Port  Fore  I  "  and  "  Starboartl  b'ore  !  "  "■  Port  Fore!  " 

■■  Port  Fore  !  '' 
••  Up  with  her.  Starboard."  and  at  that  each  oar 
Lightened,  though   arms  were  bursting,  and  e\-es  shut 
And  the  oak  stretchers  grunted  in  the  strut 
And  the  curse  quickened  from  the  cox,  our  bows 
Crashed,  and  drove  talking  water,  we  made  vows, 
Chastity  vows  and  temperance;  in  our  pain 
We  numbere<l  things  we'd  never  eat  again 
i  f   we  could  only   win ;   then   came   the   yell 
••  Starboard,"  "  Port   bore."  and  then  a  beaten  bell 
Rung  as  for  fire  to  cheer  us.     "  .\ow."     Oars  bent, 
Soul  took  the  looms  now  body's  belt  was  si)ent. 
■■  Danm    it.    come    on    now,"    "On    now,"    "  Hn    now," 

"  .Starboard." 
•'  Port   b'orc."     "  I'p  with  her.  Port;"  each  cutter  har- 
boured 
Ten  eve-shut  painsick  strugglcrs,  "  lieavc,  oh.  heave," 

245 


THE  BOOK  OK 

Catcalls  waked  echoes  like  a  shrieking  sheave. 
"  Heave,''  and  I  saw  a  l)ack,  then  two.     ''  Port  Fore." 
"  Starboard."     "  Come  on."     I  saw  the  midship  oar 
And  knew  we  had  done  them.     "  Port  Fore."     "  Star- 
hoard."  "  Now." 
I  saw  bright  water  spurting  at  their  bow 
Their  cox'   full   face  an  instant.     They  were  done. 
The  watchers'  cheering  almost  drowned  the  gun. 
We  had  hardly  strength   to  toss  our  oars;   our   cry 
Cheering  the   losing  cutter   was  a   sigh. 
Other  bright  days  of  action  have  seemed  great : 
Wild  days  in  a  pampero  off  the  Plate ; 
Good  swimming  days,  at  Hog  Back  or  the  Coves 
Which  the  young  gannct  and  the  corbie  loves ; 
Surf-swimming  between  rollers,  catching  breath 
Between  the  advancing  grave  and  breaking  death, 
Then  shooting  up  into  the  sunl)right  smooth 
To  watch  the  advancing  roller  bare  her  tooth, 
And  days  of  labour  also,  loading,  hauling; 
Long  days  at   winch   or  capstan,  heaving,   pawling; 
The  days  with  oxen,  dragging  stone  from  blasting, 
And  dusty  days  in  mills,  and  hot  days  masting. 
Trucking  on  dust-dry  deckings  smooth  like  ice, 
And  hunts  in  mighty  wool-racks  after  mice; 
Mornings  with   buckwheat  when  the  fields  did  blanch 
With   White   Leghorns  come   from  the  chicken   ranch. 
Days  near  the  spring  upon  the  sunburnt  hill, 
Plying  the  maul  or  gripping  tight  tjie  drill. 
Delights  of  work  most  real,  delights  that  change 
The  headache  life  of  towns  to  rapture  strange 
Xot  known  by  townsmen,  nor  imagined;  health 
That   puts   new   glory   upon   mental    wealth 
246 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

And  makes  the  poor  man  rich. 

But  that  ends,  too, 
Health  with  its  thoughts  of  life;  and  that  bright  view 
That  sunny  landscape  from  life's  peak,  that  glory. 
And  all  a  glad  man's  comments  on  life's  story 
And  thoughts  of  marvellous  towns  and  living  men 
And  what  pens  tell  and  all  beyond  the  pen 
End,  and  are  summed  in  words  so  truly  dead 
They  raise  no  image  of  the  heart  and  head. 
The  life,  the  man  alive,  the   friend  we  knew. 
The  mind  ours  argued  with  f)r  listened  to. 
None;  but  are  dead,  and  all  life's  keenness,  all, 
Is  dead  as  print  before  the  fimeral. 
Even  deader  after,  when  the  dates  are  sought, 
.And  cold  minds  disagree  with  what  we  thought. 

This  many  pictured  world  of  many  passions 
Wears  out  the  nations  as  a  woman  fashions, 

\nd   what   life  is  is  much   to  very   few.  \ 

Men  being  so  strange,  so  mad.  and  what  men  do 
So  good  to  watch  or  share:  but   when   men  count 
Those  hours  of  life  that  were  a  bursting  fount. 
Sparkling  the  dusty  heart   with   living  springs. 
There  seems  a  world,  beyonrl  our  earthly  things. 
Gated  by  golden  moments,  each  bright  time 
Opening  to  show  the  city  white  like  lime, 
High  towered  and  many  jieopled.     This  made  sure. 
Work  that  obscures  those  moments  seems  impure, 
.Making  our  not-returning  time  of  breath 
Dull  with  the  ritual  and  records  of  death. 
That  frost  of  fact  by  which  our  wisdom  gives 
Correctly   stated   death    to   all   that    lives. 

247 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Best  trust  the  happy  moments.     What  they  gave 
Makes  man  less  fearful  of  the  certain  grave, 
And  gives  his  work  compassion  and  new  eyes. 
The  days  that  make  us  happy  make  us  wise. 

John  Mascfield 


H3 


Nod 

SOFTLY  along  the  road  of  evening, 
In  a  twilight  dim  with  rose, 
Wrinkled  with  age,  and  drenched  with  dew 
Old  Nod,  the  shepherd,  goes. 

His  drowsy  flock  streams  on  before  him, 
Their  fleeces  charged  with  gold. 

To  where  the  sun's  last  beam  leans  low 
On  Nod  the  shepherd's  fold. 

The  hedge  is  quick  and  green  with  briar, 
From  their  sand  the  conies  creep; 

And  all  the  birds  that  fly  in  heaven 
Flock  singing  home  to  sleep. 

His  lambs  outnumber  a  noon's  roses, 
Yet,  when  night's  shadows   fall, 

His  blind  old  sheep-dog,  Slumber-soon 
Misses  not  one  of  all. 

His   are  the  quiet   sleeps  of  dreamland, 

—  The   waters   of  no-more-pain, 
248 


MODERN"  BRITISH  VERSE 

His  rani's  bell   rings  'neath  an  arch  of  stars, 
"  Rest,  rest,  and  rest  again." 

U'altcr  dc  la  Marc 

144  Sonnet 

SLEEP,  get  a  dream  out  of  your  secret  chest, 
Erom  that  long  drawer  where  the  great  visions  lie 
With  folded  wings.     Sleep,  pick  me  out  the  best ; 
Then,  as  we  see  the  moon  bound  in  the  sky 
By  a  great  ring  of  cold  on  winter  nights 
And  seeming  shut  away,  my   frozen  soul 
Shall  open  to  the  prick  of  northern  lights. 
And  by  that  guest  that  flies  from  pole  to  pole 
Of  human  consciousness,  but  is  not  heard 
Except   when  a  great  stillness  lies  beneath 
Supernal  calm,   my  spirit  shall  be  stirred. 
Calling  on  what  it  once  believed  was  death  — 
As  to  its  source  —  and  entering.  O  Sleep, 
Into  eternal  peace,  no  more  to  weep. 

Frcdcgond  Shove 


14^  Kisses  in  flic  Ram 

I    SAW  the  midlands 
Revolve  through  her  hair; 
The  fields  of  autumn 

Stretching  bare. 
And  sheep  on  the  i)asture 
Tossed  back  in  a  scare. 

249 


THE  BOOK  OF 

And    still    as    ever 

The  world  went  round, 
My  mouth  on  her  pulsing 

Neck  was  found, 
And  my  breast  to  her  heating 

Breast  was  bound. 

But  my  heart  at  the  centre 

Of  all,  in  a  swound 
Was  still  as  a  pivot. 

As  all  the  ground 
On  its  prowling  orbit 

Shifted  round. 

And  still  in  my  nostrils 

The  scent  of  her  flesh, 
And  still  my  wet  mouth 

Sought  her  afresh : 
And  still  one  pulse 

Through  all  the  world  did  thresh. 

And  the  world  all  whirling 

Around  in  joy 
Like  the  dance  of  a  dervish 

Did  destroy 
My  sense  —  and  my  reason 

Spun  like  a  toy. 

But  firm  at  the  centre 

My  heart  was  found; 
Her  own  to  my  perfect 

Heart-beat  bound. 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Like  a  magnet's  keeper 
Closing  the  round. 

D.  II.  Lawrence 


1^6  \Vc  ]Voiihi  See  Love 

WE  would  see  Love  !     Sweet,  have  we  not  de- 
sired, 
Sought,  hungered  thirsted,  agonized,   aspired. 
Met,  clasped,  refused?  and  ever  more  required 
This  answer  at  the  end?     We  would  see  Love! 

We  would  see  Love  !     Must  his  comjjanions  be 
The  chiefest  sharers  of  felicity? 
Some  follower  hold  our  life  in  custody 
Some  appetite  or  law?     W^e  would  see  Love! 

W'c  would  see  Love  !     Touch  and  the  things  of  sense. 
Our  spirits'  pupilage,  our  minds'  suspense 
Of  expectation, —  what  conjures  him  thence 
Who  is  so  far  within?     We  would  see  Love! 
We  would  see  Love!     His  face  if  none  draw  nigh 
Except  their  whole  lives  shatter  up  thereby. 
Agree,  sweet !     Let  us  look  on  God  and  die. 
l'\-cl  him.  one  shock,  and  end  !     Wc  would  sec  Love! 

Charles  Williatus 


25' 


THE  BOOK  OF 
r^/  Amourette 

The  Woman  and  the  Philosopher 

She:    What  shall  I  do.  most  pleasing  man? 
I  will  delight  yon  if  I  can. 
Shall  I  be  silent?     Shall  1  speak? 
Since  I  love  qnick  I'll  show  that  I  am  weak: 
I'll  say  the  wisest  strangest  thing  I  know 
That  yon  may  smile  at  vanity,  and  love  me  so. 

He:      How  can  her  wisdom  flourish  and  endure 
When  her  philosophy  is  but  a  lure, 
And  to  the  arsenal  of  charm  is  brought 
The  ammunition  of  her  thought? 
I  count  her  breathing  as  I  sit ; 
I  love  her  mouth,  but  disregard  her  wit. 

She:     More  than  love,  and  more  than  other  pleasure 
I  desire  thrilling  combat  of  the  wit. 
As  far  as  I  can  measure 
This  man  is  rare,  and  therefore  fit 
To  be  a  combatant,  let  me  say  one  thing  new 
That  I  may  gage  him  so,  to  prove  my  judgment 
true. 

(Here  follows  an  argument.) 

She:     Sir,   it  is  just  I  own 
That  I  am  overthrown, 
And  I  take  strange  delight 
That  I  am  beaten  so  to-night. 
252 


iMODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

He:      Madam,  you  are  a  sensualist. 

And,  being  such,  you  shall  be  kissed. 

She:     What  husbandry  is  this? 

What  thrift,  that  we  should  kiss 

On  the  first  night  we  meet? 

What  is  your  need  to  eat  the  seed. 

When  growth  might  be  so  sweet  ? 

From  this  first  pleasure  that  you  sow  in  me 

It  is  my  power  to  raise  a  gracious  tree. 

And  maybe.  I  will  give  you  a  kind  grove 

Where  you  may  sit  through  sunny  days,  and  love. 

He:      This  answer,  which  is  rare, 
Is  luring  as  your  hair. 
I  go  from  you  this  night  in  pain, 
But    Madam,    I    will    come    again. 

She:     Dreams,  dreams,  stay  with  me  till  I  sleep, 
Then  let  oblivion  steep 
My  senses  in  forget  fulness. 
That  when  I  wake,  I  may  forget  my  loneliness. 

Anna  IVickham 


148  The  Faith  fill  .Iniorist 

A.M    I  not   the  lover  of   licauty 
To  follow  her  where  I  know  she  is  hid 
By  the  aroma  of  her  i)leasure? 
Yesterday  I  had  pleasure  of  Helen, 

253 


THE  BOOK  OF 

Of  white,  of  yellow  hair, 
But  to-day  a  negress  is  my  delight, 
And  Beauty  is  black. 

There  are  some  that  are  as  small  tradesmen, 
To  sell  beauty  in  a  shop, 

Noting    what    has    been    desired,    and    acclaiming    it 
eternally  good. 


So  poets  fill  verses 

For  ever  with  the  owl,  the  oak,  and  the  nightingale. 
I  say  the  crow  is  a  better  bird  than  the  nightingale. 
Since  to-day  Beauty  is  black. 

The  lark  sings  flat 

Of  wearisome  trees  and  spiritless  fields. 
But  there  is  great  music  in  the  hyiena, 
For  there  is  pleasure  in  deserts. 

Anna  Wickham 


I4g  The  Mummer 

STRICT   I   walk  my  ordered  way 
Through    the    strait    and    duteous    day; 
The  hours  are  nuns  that  summon  me 
To  offices  of  huswifry. 
Cups  and  cupboards,  flagons,  food 
Are  things  of  my  solicitude ; 
No  elfin  folly  haply  strays 
Down  my  precise  and  well-swept  ways. 
254 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

When  that  compassionate  lady  Night 
Shuts  out  a  prison  from  my  sight, 
With  other  thrift  I  turn  a  key 
Of  the  old  chest  of  Memory. 
And  in  my  spacious  dreams  unfold 
A  flimsy  stuff  of  green  and  gold. 
And  walk  and  wander  in  the  dress 
Of  old  delights,  and  tenderness. 

Anna  Wickham 


150  The  World's  Miser 


A 


MISER  with  an  eager  face 
Sees  that   each    roseleaf   is   in   [)lace. 


He  keeps  beneath  strong  holts  and  bars 
The  piercing  beauty  of  the  stars. 

The  colours  of  the  dying  da\ 

He  hoards  as  treasures  —  well  iii-  may  I 

.And  saves  witii  care  (lest  they  be  lost) 
The  cjainty  diagrams  of  frost. 

He  counts  the  hairs  of  every  head, 
And  grieves  to  sec  a  sparrow  dead. 

255 


THE  BOOK  OF 

II 

Among  the  yellow  primroses 
He  holds  His  summer  palaces, 

And  sets  the  grass  about  thcni  all 

To  guard  them  as  His  spearmen  small. 

He  fixes  on  each  wayside  stone 
A  mark  to  shew  it  as  His  Own, 

And  knows  when  raindrops  fall  through  air 
Whether  each  single  one  be  there, 

That  gathered  into  ponds  and  brooks 
They  may  become  His  picture-books, 

To  shew  in  every  spot  and  place 
The  living  glory  of  His  face. 

Theodore  Maynard 


iji  Apocalypse 

"  And  I  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  :  for  the  first 
heaven  and  the  first  earth  were  passed  away." —  Apoc. 
xxi,  I. 

SHALL  summer  woods  where  we  have  laughed  our 
fill: 
Shall  all  your  grass  so  good  to  walk  upon ; 
Each  field  which  we  have  loved,  each  little  hill 
Be  burnt  like  paper  —  as  hath  said  Saint  John? 

2^6 


MODERN  BRITISH  VERSE 

Then  not  alone  they  die  !     For  God  hath  told 
How  all  His  plains  of  mingled  fire  and  glass, 

His  walls  of  hyacinth.  His  streets  of  gold, 
His  aureoles  of  jewelled  light  shall  pass. 

That  He  may  make  us  nohler  things  than  these, 
And  in  her  royal  rohes  of  blazing  red 

Adorn  His  bride.     Vea.  with  what  mysteries 
And  might  and  mirth  shall  she  be  diamonded! 

And  what  new  secrets  shall  our  God  disclose ; 

Or  set  what  sums  of  burnished  brass  to  flare; 
Or  what  empurpled  blooms  to  oust  the  rose: 

Or  what  strange  grass  to  glow  like  angels'  hair! 

What  pinnacles  of  silver  tracery. 

What  dizzy  rampircd  towers  shall  God  devise 
Of  topaz,  beryl   and  chalcedony 

To  make  Heaven  pleasant  to  His  children's  eyes! 

/\nd  in  what  cataclysms  of  flame  and  foam 
Shall  the  first  Heaven  sink  —  as  red  as  sin  — 

When  God  hath  cast  aside  His  ancient  hdme 
As  far  too  mean  to  house  His  children  in! 

Theodore  Maynard 


^v 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 

After   Two    Years Richard    Aldington     ....  6i 

An  Epitaph ll'alter  de  la   Marc    ....  jjo 

An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads  .    .    .    Padraic    Colum 69 

And    Vou,    Helen Edward    Thomas 46 

Any  Lover,  Any   Lass Richard    Middlclon     ....  59 

Arabia Walter  de  la  Marc    ....  104 

Ascetics,  The George  Rostrcror 38 

Assault,    The Robert   Nichols 159 

Assault  Heroic,  The Robert    Grazes 157 

.\ugust,    i9"4 John   Masefictd 135 

.\mourette Inna   U'ickham J5J 

.\pocalyi>se Theodore    Maynaiil    ....  J56 

.\ffinity.    The hnia  U'ickham 8j 

Elabylon       Ralph  Hodgson 105 

Babylon       I'iola    Taylor 107 

Hack Il'ilfrid   Wilson    Gibson     .    .  171 

Backward  Glance,  The livelyn    Underhill J 14 

Halkis Lascelles  /ibercrombic   ...  87 

Ballad  of  CannU-n  T<jwn.  Tho  .    .    .    fames  Elroy  Flecker  ....  83 

Ballad   of   Doom.   .\ Tlicebeth  Rendatl go 

Before    Action      Wilfrid   Wilson  Gibson      .    .  145 

r.eliind    the    Closed    Kye Francis  Ledwidgc 3.1 

Billy's    Yarn Cicely  Fox  Smith 118 

"  Bid    Adieu   to   (Jirii^li    Days"    .    .    James  Joyce 60 

Biograiihy John    Masefield 239 

Bird  at  Dawn,  Thi- Harold    Monro 28 

Birds    Flit    Unafraid.    The    ....    Herbert    Trench       153 

BirthriKlit       John    Drinkivatcr 211 

Boclily     Beauty George  Roslretvr 58 

Bough  of  Nonsense,  The Robert    Grazes 108 

Brother    Fidelia Gwcn    Vfcott i97 

Bull,  The Ralph  Hodgson 51 

By    the    Wood Robert    Nichols i'>S 

Cargoes       John    Masefield «J5 

Carol  of  the   Poor  Children,   The    .    Richard   MiddU-t-u      ....  is 

-259 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 

Check      James    Stel^liens      113 

Children's  Song Ford   Madox   Hueffer    ...  14 

Clavichords Osbert    Sitwell 5 

C.   L.   iM John    Mascfield 65 

Conscripts       Siegfried  Sassoon 143 

Dark  Way,  The Joseph  Mary  Plunk ct I   .    .    .  212 

Dead,    The Rupert   Brojoke 140 

Deep   Water  Jack Cicely  Fox  Smith 125 

Discharged Totally    Disabled    .  Irene  Rutherford  McLcod   .  175 

Discovery John    Freeman 3 

Divina   Commedia Eva    Gore-Booth      232 

Dreamers Siegfried     Sassoon      ....  150 

Drover,    A Padraic    Cohnn 129 

Dusk F.  S.  Flint 150 

Dust Rupert    Brooke 93 

Dying   Patriot,   The James   Elroy    Flecker    .    .    .  185 

Eager    Spring Gordon  Bottomlcy 21 

Eve Ralph  Hodtjson 85 

Epilogue Lascelles    Abercrovihie       .    .  96 

Every    Thing Harold    Monro 1 ' 

Fables Sacheverell  Sitwell     .    .    .    .  lu 

Fear,   The Wilfrid    Wilson    Gibson    .    .  147 

Fish,    The      Rupert    Brooke 47 

The    Faithful    .\morist 4nna  Wickham 253 

Gallows       Edward   Thomas 215 

Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand,  The  James    Elroy    Flecker    .    .    .  loi 

Happy  Is  England   Now John    Freeman 134 

Harvest       Eva    Gore-Booth 211 

Haymaking Edward    Thomas 13' 

House   of   the    Soul,   The:    Lay    .    .  Dorothy    L.    Sayers    ....  222 

1914 Rupert    Brooke 138 

I  am  the  Gilly  of  Christ Seosamh     MacCathmhaoil 

(Joseph    Campbell)     ...  194 

I  am  the  Mountainy  Singer  ....  Seosamh    MacCathmhaoil 

(Joseph    Campbell)     ...  37 

If  I   Should  Ever  by  Chance   .    .    .  Edward     Thomas 43 

If  I  were  to  Own Edward     Thomas 45 

260 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 

"In    Prize" Cirely  Fox  Smith \Z2 

In    Flanders    Fields Jolni  McCrae i8j 

In   the   Country li  illiam    H.    Dalies    ....  32 

In  the  Trenches Kicltard    Aldington     ....  148 

Into    Battle Julian     Grenfcll       156 

Iron    Music,    The I- ord    Madox    Hueffer    .    .    .  146 

It's  a  Queer  Time Robert    Graves 170 

Kingfisher,   The tl  illiam    H.   Davies    ....  29 

Kiss,     The Siegfried     Sassoon     .    .    .    .  141 

Kisses   in    the    Rain IK    H.    Laurence    ...'..  240 

Lancelot   and    Guinevere Gerald  Gould Sq 

Lepanto       G.   K.   Chesterton 1S7 

Listeners,    The Halter  dc  la  Mare     ....  jjo 

Little  Waves  of  Breffny,  Tlie  .    .    .    I'.va    Gore-Booth 1  .'4 

Love  Came  to  Us lames    Joyce 61 

Magic      II'    J.   Turner 40 

Man William    H.    Davies    ....  9 

Mandrake's   Horrid    Scream,   The    .    IS  rnard  Gilbert 66 

Marriage    Song Lascelles    Ahercrombie       ■    .  76 

Mole II  loKs  I..  Huxley 49 

Myself  on  the  .Merry-GoKound   .    .    i.dith  Sitwell 114 

Mystic  as  Soldier,  .\ Siegfried  Sassoon 153 

Music    Comes lohn    Freeman 4 

Mummer,     The Irna   It'icLham ^54 

Man  Dreams  That   lit-   Is  tlie  Crea- 
tor,   .\ Frcdcgond   Shoxc 10 

Netted    Strawhcrrics Gordon  Bottomley jg 

Niccolo    .Machiavclli Bernard    Gilbert      23H 

Nod Walter  de   la   At  are    ....  J^H 

No    Wife                                                            Hernard    Gilbert       70 

Old  Houses  of  Flanders,  The  .    .    .    l-'ord    Madox    lluc/fer    .    .    .  iRj 

Old   Woman    Furcver   SidinK    •    •    •    Iris  Tree 7" 

Peace                                                  ...    Rupert    Brooke 13H 

Philosophy      Cirely  Fox  Smith ii'> 

Picnic      Kose   Macaulay 'Sj 

Plaint     of      Frirndsliip     hy      Death 

Rrokcn     .                                                    H.'bcrt    Xiehols 217 

2()\ 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 

"  Psittachus     Eois     Iiiiitatrix     Ales 

Ab  Indis  " —  Ovid Sacheverelt    Sitwell    .    .    .    .  1 1 1 

Question,    The      Wilfrid   Wilson   Gibson      .    .  14S 

Quod   Semper Lucy   I.yttelton 18 

Rainbow,    The      Leslie    Coulson 173 

Reciprocity John    Drinkwater 39 

Regnum  Caeloruni  \'ini   I'atitiir    .    .    Evelyn    Underhill 195 

Return,     The Wilfrid    Wilson    Gihsoii     .    .  172 

Safety Rupert   Brooke 139 

"Ships  That  Pass'" Cicely  Fox  Smith 119 

Simon  the  Cyrenean Lucy    Lyttelton 2o<j 

Soldier,    The Rupert   Brooke 141 

So  Much  Is  Altered T.  W.  Earp 8 

Song  for  Grocers,  A Sherard    Vines 109 

Songs  from  an   Evil   Wood    ....    Lord    Dunsany 166 

Song  of  April,    A Francis  Ledwidgc   ......  22 

Song  of  Woman's  Smiling.  A    .    .    .    May   Doney      62 

Sonnet      Fredegond  Shove 249 

Sorley's    W'eatlier Robert  Graves 128 

South  Country,  The Hilaire    Belloc 35 

Spires    of    Oxford,    The Winifred   M.    Letts    ....  142 

Spring Hester  Sainsbury 23 

Star,    The      Willoughby    W^cavin^     ...  j 

Stone   Trees John    Freeman 42 

Sunrise  on   Rydal   Water John    Drinkwater 26 

Symbols      John    Drinkwater 8 

Terror Richard    Aldington     ....  154 

To   My   Wife James    C.    Welsh 64 

There   Are   Songs   Enoiiuli    ....    Iris  Tree 13-' 

To   a   Greek   Marble Richard    Aldington     ....  95 

To  an  Officer  in   Regent  Street    .    .    Lucy    Hawkins 172 

Time,  You  Old  Gipsy   Man   ....    Ralph  Hodgson i 

To    a    Bull-Dog J.    C.    Squire 177 

To  any  Dead  Officer Siegfried  Sassoon 163 

To   Germany Charles  Hamilton  Soiiey   .    .  1 73 

To  the   Poet   I'cfore    P)attle    ....    I7'0r    Curney 147 

Triptych Robert    Nichols 200 

Two   Carols Evelyn    Underhill 199 

Two    Children,    The William    H.    Davies    ....  18 

262 


IXUEX  01-   POEMS 


Uxbridge    Road lively »    L'ndcrlull ij6 

Wanderlust Gerald    Gould 34 

What  Shall  I   Give? Edward    Ttiomas 44 

When  It's  Over Max    Plowman 180 

Whisperers,    The Wilfrid    Wilson    Gibson    ■    .  2ji 

Scosamh    MacCathniliaoil 

Who    Buys    Land (Joseph    Campbell)     ...  7 

Wind,   The Elizcbeth  Kendall 3' 

Wishes  for  My  Son Thomas    MacDonagh     ...  16 

We    Would    See    Love Charles    Williams -5> 

World's   Miser,   The Theodore    Maynaid    ....  ^55 

Youth  and  Age Osbert    Sitwell 144 


263 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  man  dreams  that  he  is  the  Crea- 
tor     Frcdegond  Shove lo 

A   ship   was    built   in    Gla'^gow,    and 

oh,  she  looked  a  daisy Cicely  Fox  Smith 122 

After     night's     thunder     far     away 

had     rolled Rilward    Thomas iji 

"Ah,    little   boy!      I    see li'illiam  H.  Dories     ....  18 

Ages   long  the  hills  have   stood    .    .    George  Rostrevor 38 

And  you,  Helen,  what  should  1  give 

you  ? Edward    Thomas 46 

As  beneath  the  moon   1   walked    .    .  Wilfrid    IVilson    Gibson    .    .  221 

Away,   for  we  are  ready  to  a  man  1  James    FJroy    Flecker    .    .    .  101 

Am   I   not  the   lover  of   Beauty    .    .    Anna   Wickham 253 

A  miser  with  an  eager  face  ....  Theodore    Maynard    ....  2SS 

Back    from    the    Somnie    two    I'usil- 

iers       Robert    Grazes 108 

Balkis  was  in  her  marble  town  .  .  Lascelles  Abcrcrombie  ...  87 
Beauty  had  first  my  pride  ....  Willoughby  Weaving  ...  2 
Beauty    walked    over    the    hills   and 

made  them   bright John    Freeman 3 

Beyond    the    East    the    sunrise,    be- 

yonrl  the  West  the  sea Gerald    Gould       34 

Rid   adieu,    adieu,    adieu James    Joyce 60 

Blow     out,     you     bugles,     over     the 

rich-Dead!       Rupert    Brooke 140 

Come    down    at    dawn     from    wiml- 

less    hills John    Drinkwaler 26 

Come     up,     <lcar     chuM-n     iiiorninK. 

come Lascelles  Abercromhie    ...      76 

Hay    breaks   on    England    down    the 

Kentish    hills James    F.lroy    Flecker    .    .    .    1R5 

Dear!    of    all    hap(iy    in    the    hour. 

most   blest      Rupert    Urooke |.19 

Down  in  the  mud  I  lay Robert  Gravel 157 


265 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Earth    like   a  butterfly Hester  Suinsbury 23 

Eve,   with   her  basket,   was    ....  Ralph  Hodgson 85 

Fall   in,    that   awkward    squad,   and 

strike   no   more Siegfried  Sassoon 143 

Far  are  the  shades  of  Arabia  .  .  .  Walter  de  la  Mare  ....  104 
From   thy   serene  abode   thou   look- 

est   down Bernard    Gilbert      238 

Flores    apparuerunt    in     terra     nos- 

tre —       Evelyn    Uiiderliill 199 

God,   if   Thou   livest,   Thine   eye    on 

me    bend Robert   Nichols 217 

He  went,  and  he  was  gay  to  go   .    .  H'ilfrid    Wilson    Gibson     ..17^ 

Heaven  bless  grocers' shops  wherein  Sherard   Vines 109 

Her  curving  bosom  images   ....  George  Rostrevor 58 

Here  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady   .    .  Walter  de   la   Marc    ....  220 

Here  where  the  brown  leaves  fall    .  F.  S.  Flint 150 

How  still  this  quiet  cornfield  is  to- 
night!         John    Mascficld 135 

How    still   the    day    is,    and    the    air 

how  bright!    . Robert    Nichols 165 


I  am  the  Gilly  of  Christ 


I   am   a  willow-wren    .    .    . 
I  am  the  mountainy  singer 


I  do  not  fear  to  die 

I     do     not     think     that     skies     and 

meadows    are 

I  have  forgotten  my  name  and  the 

name  of  my  nation  .  .  .  yes  .  . 
I  have  the  freedom  of  my  mouth   . 

I   lived  my  days  apart 

I  love  a  still  conservatory  .  .  .  . 
I  sat  in  heaven  like  the  sun  .  .  . 
I  saw  history  in  a  poet's  song  .  . 
I  sit  beside  the  brazier's  glow  .  . 
I  walk  the  old  frequented  ways  .  . 
I    walked    with    Maisie    long    years 

back 

266 


Seosanih  MacC  alhinhaoil 
{Joseph    Campbell)     . 

Gordon  Bottumlcy  .    .    . 

Seosanih  MacCalhnihaoit 
(Joseph    Campbell)     . 

Wilfrid   li^ilson   Gibson 

John    Drink'vater    .    .    . 


Dorothy  L.  Saycrs 
May     Doney     .    . 
Siegfried  Sassoon 
W.   J.    Turner 
Fredegond   Slinvr 
John    Drinkzvatcr 
Wilfrid    Wilson    Gibson 
Francis  Ledwidgc   ■    ■    ■ 


James  FAroy  Flecker 


222 
62 

JS3 

40 

10 

8 

14s 
33 

83 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

I  watch  the   white  dawn  gleam    .  '.    Leslie    Coulson 173 

I    wonder    if   the    o!d    cow    died    or 

not Wilfrid    Wilson    Gibson    .    .  148 

If  I   should  die,  think  only  this  of 

me Rupert    Brooke 141 

If     you     could     bring     her     glories 

back! Ralph  Hodgson loj 

If    I    should    ever    by    chance   grow 

rich      Edward     Thomas 43 

If   I   were   to   own    this   countryside  Edward     Thomas 45 

I'm    going    softly    all    my    years    in 

wisdom    if    in    pain — I'iola    Taylor 107 

In  a  cool  curving  world  he  lies   .    .    Rupert    Brooke 47 

In   h'landers  ficMs  the  poppies  blow   John   MeCrac 182 

In  the  dark  womb  where  I  began   .   John    Musefield    ......  65 

I  saw  the  spires  of  Oxford   ....    Winifred    M.    Letts' .    .    .    .  142 

I  saw  Time  running  by —   .    .    .    .    Williain  "//.    Davies    ....  9 

"  Is    there    anybody    there?  "    said 

the   Traveller Walter  de   la    Mure    ....  220 

It's    hard    to    know    if    you're    alive 

or  dcail Robert    Graves 170 

It  was  the  Rainbow  gave  thee  birth    Willinm    //.    Da:ics    ....  29 

Its  pure  and  dulcet  tone Oshert    Silwell S 

I      have      to      thank      God      I'm      a 

woman — Iiiiia   Wickham 8j 

I  saw  the  midlands D.    U.    Lawrence -'40 

"  I.adics,   pretty  ladies Elicrbelh    Rcndall 90 

I-ast  night  a  sword-light  in   the  sky   Jvhn    Freeman 42 

"  Last    night    in    the    Haltic   Tavern 

Tap      Cicely  Fox  Smith 116 

Like    some    lean    ghost    who    for    a 

little    space Lucy    Hawkins 172 

Lord   Ramescs  of  Flgypt   sighnl    .    .    '.i/iti    Drinkwatrr 211 

Love  came  to  us  in  tinu-  im.ih    1,-.        James    Joyce 61 


Music    comes John     Freeman 


N'ot  that  wc  are  weary Riihard    .Udinnlon     ....    148 

"."ow,     fio«l     l»c     thankcjl     who     ha» 

matched   us  with    fliii  hour    .    .    .    Ruf'Crl    Brooke 1.18 

Now,  my  son,  it  life  ff)r  you    .    .    .    Thomas     Maclhinnnh     ...      ifi 

2G7 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Now,  youth,  the  hour  of  thy  dread 

passion  comes Ivor    Gurney 147 

O,  to  have  a  little  house! Padraic    Colum 69 

Oh,    it's   "  ah,    fare    you    well,"    for 

the  deep  sea's  crying Cicely  Fox  Smith 125 

Old  woman   forever  sitting   ....  Iris  Tree 70 

On  a  day  in   Maytime  mild   ....  Robert    Nichols 200 

" 'Oo   seen   her   off?  " Cicely  Fox  Smitli 118 

Outside    the    church    tlie    mourning 

children  cried Osbert    Sitwell 144 

Passing    to    Chapel    thro'    the    high 

cloister'd  way Given    Upcott 197 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  dis- 
tant   Ophir John    Mase field 125 

Rougher  than  death  the  road  I 
choose Joseph  Mary  Plunkett   .    .    .212 

Shall     summer     woods     where     we 

have  laughed  our  fill Theodore    Maynard    .    .    .    .256 

See  an  unhappy  bull Ralph  Hodgson 51 

She  is  all  so  slight Richard  Aldington 61 

Since   man   has   been   articulate    .    .    Harold    Monro 11 

Sir  Lancelot  beside  the  mere    .    .    .    Gerald   Gould 89 

Sleep,    get    a    dream    out    of    your 

secret  chest Fredegond   Shove 249 

So     death     was     cheated     of     you ! 

Here   you   lie Irene  Rutherford  McLeod   .  175 

So   much   is  altered;    we   no   longer 

write T.   IV.  Earp 8 

Softly  along  the  road  of  evening   .    Walter  de  la   Mare    ....  248 

Soldiers     are     citizens     of     death's 

grey  land Siegfried  Sassoon 150 

Sometimes  wind  and  sometimes  rain   Ford   Madox   Hueffer    ...  14 

She:  What  shall  I  do,  most  pleas- 
ing man? Anna  Wickham 253 

Strict   I   walk  my   ordered  way    .    .    Anna  Wickham 254 

The    beating    of    the    guns    grows 

louder Robert   Nichols i59 

"The  birds  flit  unafraid Herbert     Trench i53 

268 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LIXES 

The    censer    of    the    eglantine    was 

moved Francis     Ledwidge     ....  22 

The   French  guns  roll  continuously  Ford    Madox    Hneffcr    ...  146 

The  giddy  sun's  kaleidoscope —  .    .  EJilh   Sitwcll 114 

The  grand  road  from  the  mountain 

goes  shining  to  the  sea E-,a    Core-Booth      1.^4 

The     naked     earth     is     warm     with 

spring Julian    Groifcll 156 

The     night     was     creeping     on     the 

ground James    Stephens       113 

The   old   houses   of   Flanders    .    .    .  Ford    Madox   Hueficr    .    .    .  182 

The  parrot's  voice  snaps  out  —  .  .  Sacheverell  Sitwell  ....111 
The  Western   Road   goes   streaming 

out  to  see  the  cleanly  wild    .    .    .  Exelyn    Underhill 126 

There    are    songs    enough    of    love, 

of  joy,  of  grief Iris  Tree 132 

There    are    ships    that    pass    in    the 

night-time,    some    poet    has    told 

us  how Cicely  Fox  Smith 119 

There  is  no  wrath  in  the  stars     .    .  Lord  Diinsany 166 

There    is    not    anything    more    won- 

'lerful      John    Frecmai 134 

There    was    a    weasel    lived    in    the 

sun       F.dri'ard    Thomas 21 5 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human 

joys    and    cares Rupert    Brooke 140 

These  things  have  passed;   no  more 

through  twilight   hours Cfo     Core-Booth 232 

They  ask  me  where  I've  been   .    .    .  Wilfrid    H'ilson    Gibson    .    .  171 

They  set  him  on  a  sunny  road    .    .  F.velyn    Vndcrhill 214 

This  is  the  talc  from  first  to  last    .  l.ucy    l.yttclton .:o'j 

To   Meath   of   the  pastures    ....  Padriac    Colum 129 

Those  of  the  earth  envy  us  ...    .  Richard     /tIdinKlon     ....  1 54 

This  life  is  sweetest;  in  this  wood  H'illiam  II.  Da-.ics  ....  32 
Though    the    long    seasons    seem    to 

separate       /•"»•<!  GorrBooth 211 

Time,    you    old    gipsy    man    ....  Ralph   Hodgson 1 

Tom!     Tom;      Wh.it    you    think?    .  Bernard     Gilherl "i 

To  these   I  turn,  in  these   I  trust    .  Siegfried  Satsoon 14' 

Tunnellr<l  in   solid  blackness  creeps  Aldout  L.  Huxley 4') 

We  are  the  poor  cliildrcn.  conie  out 

to  see  the  sights Richard    Middlelon     ....      is 

269 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

We     children     every     morn     would 

wait        .      William    H.    Davies    ....      20 

We  lay.  and  ate  sweet  hurt-berries  Rose   Macaiilay 183 

Well,,  how    are    things    in    Heaven? 

I    wish   you'd   say Siegfried    Sassoon       ....    163 

We    shan't    see     Willy     any     more, 

Mamie J.    C.    Squire 177 

What  I  saw  was  just  one  eye    .  .    .    Harold    Monro 28 

What  shall   I  give  my  ilaughter  the 

younger       Edward     Thomas 44 

What   shall    we    do    for    Love    these 

days?. Lascelles  Abercrombie   ...      96 

What  wind  is  this  across  the  roofs 

so   softly  makes  his  way    ....    Lucy   Lyttelton 18 

When  I  am  buried,  all  my  thoughts 

and    acts John    Masefield 239 

When   I  am  living  in  the  Midlands   Hilaire     Bclloc 35 

When  the  white  flame  in  us  is  gone  Rupert    Brooke 93 

Whirl,     snow,     on     the     b'ackbird's 

chatter Gordon  Bottomley  .....     2r 

When    our    five-angled    spears,    that 

pierced   the  world Evelyn    Underbill 195 

When  outside  the  icy  rain    ....    Robert    Graves 128 

When    sere    has    touched    the    leaf 

with    age James  C.  Welsh 64 

White  founts  falling  in   the  Courts 

of   the    sun G.    K.    Chesterton 187 

White  grave   goddess Richard    Aldington     ....      95 

Who   buys    land   buys   many    stones   Seosamh  MacCalhmhaoil 

(Joseph  Campbell)    ....        7 
Who    taught    the    centaur    first    to 

drink Sacheverell    Sitwell    .    .    .    .112 

Why  ain't  the  Mester  back?    .    .    .   Bernard  Gilbert 66 

Why    are    her    eyes    so    bright,    so 

bright      Richard    Middleton     ....      59 

Why  does  the  wind  so  want  to  be   .    Eliccbeth   Rendall 31 

We   woukl   see   I-nve!      Sweet,   have 

we   not   desired Charles    Williams 251 

You   arc   blind   like  us.     Your   hurt 

no    man    designed Charles    Hamilton    Sorlcy     .    173 

Young   soldier,  what  will   you   be   .  Max    Plounnan 180 

270 


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